Two Brothers
by shyangell
Summary: AU Early in the war against Voldemort, Regulus makes a terrifying discovery that will prompt him to ask for Sirius' help. His survival will change the course of a war, and the fate of the House of Black. Rated for some aggressive language.
1. Prologue: A Point Of No Return

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn, betaed by the wonderful MKofGod. Thank you!_

_Summary: Regulus makes a terrifying discovery that will prompt him to ask for Sirius' help. His survival will change the course of a war, and the fate of the House of Black._

_This story is an AU/What if kind of story and centers around the figures of both Black Brothers in a present where both are still alive. What if Regulus had clung to life? We will never know, because the characters aren't mine, but I write about it anyway._

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

_This is__ WIP for the moment, and is also being revised._

_THIS CHAPTER IS NEWLY BETAED_

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**Prologue – A Point of no Return**

_Any man's death diminishes me_

_Because I am involved in mankind;_

_And therefore never send to know_

_For whom the bell tolls;_

_It tolls for thee._

_- Donne_

_London, winter of 1979_

It is the middle of February and the mist pools are thick and oppressive over London. The fog is so thick that night one can't see past one's nose. Long pale tendrils of wet cold inclemency clutch at people's hands and legs like fingers of ice, freezing living beings down to their very bone marrow.

The elegant business-like buildings stand proud and tall side by side. It is a busy street, even this late at night it still buzzes with feverish activity. It is said that often it is the best policy to hide things in plain view. This would be one such a case, where a man hides himself not in a remote location, but in the middle of one of the most concurred streets in one of the most crowded cities in Europe.

A dark figure stands on the street gazing at the building in front of him, half hidden in the shadows of the night and a darkened corner, while people pass him by without noticing. A torrential downpour is going to fall over London soon; people can feel it coming and hurry along in their way. But he doesn't seem to notice, or care. He has other problems in his mind.

Some of his people have already tried to enter the same apartment on the fifth floor of the building he is staring at. The final destination for all of them has been St. Mungo; except for Guiles, whose end was far more tragic. Very strong wards; a poor attempt at dispelling them and not very friendly intentions had been the recipe for disaster. That apartment is a well defended bunker for all its apparent normality. The alarms are incredibly sensitive. The contention spells are most likely impenetrable for someone with the slightest intention of harm. But his intent is totally different to all those who've previously tried. He doesn't want to hurt the house's current inhabitant, he just needs his help.

With a quick glance down the street he heads towards the entrance of the building, trying with all his might for his stride not to falter. He has already made up his mind; now it is not the time to turn back. He has no choice. He pushes the heavy door open without feeling any untoward resistance. Without checking the apartment number on the mailbox he starts to make his way up the stairs with haste. First floor, second floor, third floor… after some more flights of stairs later he finally reaches the attic. There are only two doors on that floor and he heads towards the one on his left.

He swallows hard and tries to ease his breathing. It won't do to look scared, his pride wouldn't allow it… and it wouldn't be convenient either. He knocks on the door, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough not to seem desperate. He can hear soft footsteps behind the door, the click of the door latch opening, and then a face appears hovering above him; in the darkness in front of him.

The man stands for a second there, face unreadable and blank. He can't really know what he is thinking in that moment, but he can imagine. It is likely that he is assessing the situation.

The young man standing outside makes to speak. The other never gives him the chance. In less than a second, he is being dragged inside the flat at wandpoint and shoved against the wall. The taller man has his right hand fisted around the other man's collar and he has to make an effort to stay on his toes while a wand is being pointed directly into his face, into his left eye socket to be precise.

"What are _you_ doing here?" asks the older man, almost spitting out the words, full of venom and hatred. "Come to kill me, Regulus?" he says, pressing his wand harder against the pale skin between Regulus' eyes.

The man named Regulus opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, he tries to speak, but finds he's lost his voice. Surely he realizes he would have never gotten through all those meticulously set up layers of wards, jinxes and alarms if he'd had the slightest intention of doing him any harm?

"I… I..." he swallows convulsively as the other man's wand gets dangerously close to his nose again. "I need… your help" Regulus says, so quietly that the other man seems not to hear, and might in fact, have not. "I need help, Sirius." he chokes out. Sirius' face seems to soften for a moment but he keeps fast his unyielding grip on Regulus' shirt collar. He doesn't lower his wand either.

"What do you want?" Sirius says, his voice a little bit less stained with hate, but still chilly.

"It would be far easier for me to explain it if you took your wand away from my face." pleads Regulus quietly. Sirius doesn't let up, but keeps pointing the wand at him instead. Regulus looks up its long shaft and into his older brother's eyes, cold like they'd been for what feels like uncountable years now. They are scrutinizing him meticulously. He tries to hold his gaze, show he's being honest; but feels compelled to look away after only a few seconds. It is a stare difficult to hold.

"Please, Sirius, let me talk, then you can freely maim me, kill me… or do whatever it is you prefer to do to the idiots that make you loose your time." It seems that Sirius is going to refuse and hex him right there without further ado. "My wand is in my left pocket breast, in my outer robes." Regulus says reading quite accurately track of his brother's thoughts, and possible reaction. Sirius then reaches slowly towards his brother's pocket and removes his wand, putting it in his own pocket.

Now that Regulus is properly disarmed, Sirius slowly releases his grip and takes a couple of steps back, still aiming at his brother, he shakes his head to the right.

"Move over there" but when the smaller man tries to move his head to check where he is going, he adds: "two steps to your left, two backwards. Don't do anything stupid."

Regulus feels his back collide with the cold wall; it is a bare corner at the end of the hallway. _Clever_, he thinks. He has him effectively cornered. He certainly can't move without being absurdly easy to hit with a curse, he can't try to escape. He sends a silent prayer upwards that somehow this will end less badly than he fears. Sirius loosens the muscles in his arm, lowering his wand so it isn't level with his shoulders anymore. He isn't letting his guard down. But he doesn't seemed inclined to attack immediately either. Regulus breathing is heavy and he looks at his feet.

"Start talking." commands Sirius sternly. "If that's what you're here for, speak." and Regulus does. He always does what he's told. It is his greatest defect. He looks at his brother in the eye and starts talking, words tumble out of his mouth on their own volition.

"I want out." he stops, looking for the right words. He knows he sounds stupid. But unexpectedly, Sirius doesn't interrupt him. "I truly don't want to be a Death Eater. Not anymore. The only reason I wanted to in the first place was because I thought it would make mother happy. But again… I was wrong." his voice is a mere whisper. "This was a terrible idea."

"One does not walk away from Voldemort that easily, Regulus." Sirius says looking disapprovingly at him; and he could swear there was also pity there. "It's a lifetime of service or death."

"I know, but I have no other choice Sirius." Sirius would have sworn that what he just read in his brothers eyes was regret. For entering or leaving he doesn't know yet. But he waits for Regulus to elaborate. It is a tactic that always works, this time too, because after only another few minutes of silence Regulus speaks again. "I have come to realize that he is not what I thought he was. That he does not fight for my beliefs, for no-one's beliefs, he only fights to fulfill his megalomaniac dreams of grandness. I've realized… that I've been doing horrible things… for someone who doesn't care why you do it." he stops again, trying to put his thoughts in order.

It is hard making this kind of confession. It tears at his pride; he has to fight with eight years of the profoundly ingrained habit of disdain for the likes of Sirius. He is afraid it won't be enough. Merlin knows if their positions were reversed, it wouldn't. He doesn't deserve the help he is asking for… but he asks for it anyway. It is time to start doing the right thing. And he can't quite squash hope, that despite all the bad blood it _will_ be enough. You don't always get what you deserve after all. And he has more faith in Sirius that he has in anyone else. And he steels himself, his face hardening.

"He's been making horcruxes, lots of them." Sirius doesn't seem surprised at all. But after all, they were raised by the same people. If he himself had suspected before, it is logical that Sirius had too. Suddenly, his hand flies to his pocket, making Sirius raise his wand again.

"Watch what you do." He says menacingly, and Regulus stands frozen. "Raise your hand… slowly. And don't try anything with me." Regulus nods, and very slowly he raises his hand, retrieving it from his pocket. He is keeping his hand closed around a small object. "What's that?" Sirius finally asks. He releases his grip, and his fingers close around an old faded silk ribbon, and a round solid golden medallion falls dangling from it, emitting sinister shimmers into the partially lit dust room. Realization is plain in Sirius' face. "You've stolen one of them?"

"I had no choice."

"One does always have a choice. Although there is not always a right one; or an easy one. You have condemned yourself to death." says Sirius flatly. "And there is nothing I can do." his face holds no feelings, only coldness and contempt. Regulus looks at his brother's eyes and shudders. Maybe he is going to be kicked out, to be alone again and die in a corner.

"But you were right, all along." says the younger brother, trying not to look intimidated. "And I was totally blind…" Sirius face softens a little. He can't possibly deny that he is curious about what his brother has to say, and moved by the constant half-uttered apologies, so he lets him talk instead of kicking him out of his flat as he had planned. "I should have listened to you. You were right… about everything. And I was wrong."

It is a huge admission, and both know it.

Two pairs of grey eyes meet over the wide ocean of solitude that separates them. Regulus is trying with all his might to appeal to his brother's merciful nature. He ss supposed to have more of it than he does. He pours a world of feeling into that look. He pulls all of his barriers down; they are useless anyway with him. And if there ever was a moment to be honest it is this one. Suddenly he looks so young to Sirius, so broken and so lost. His gaze holds far too many horrors for one who has barely reached nineteen. Something in Sirius' heart softens. It is a hardened piece of steel that hardly responds to touch anymore, not for his family; but it does now. His brother's helplessness tugs at the few sensitive chords it still has left.

Somehow despite the endless years of fighting, the constant insults and mutually professed hatred, they are still the only person who can read the other with any measure of success. They can sense the other's feelings and thoughts, sometimes even judge accurately the honesty of the other. He knows Sirius would know it if he was lying. Something akin to pride appears on the eyes of the eldest. He takes two steps forward and looks down at him.

"You know that a good action does not redeem a life of bad choices." Sirius challenges. Regulus looks a bit ashamed.

"Yes," he says quietly, and then looks up at his brother. "But what man is a man that does not try."

Sirius places a hand on his brother's shoulder and looks at him, his scrutinizing gaze sweeping over him once more. Of a sudden, he walks up to the couch, grabs a jacket and heads towards the door. Once there, he turns around to find Regulus looking back at him, still in the same place, frozen with a questioning look in his face.

"We must go." says the older brother as he unlocks the door. "You must leave the country. With a bit of luck we'll be out of England before anyone notices your absence. No one will notice mine. Hurry up."

Both brothers walk out of the flat, and sneak outside the building. The two figures walk down the deserted streets of London under the heavy rain, they keep up a fast pace. One of lesser build would not be able to keep up. The underground of London is almost deserted now, and almost everyone is drunk enough not to think twice about the oddly dressed couple in their midst. About an hour later, they've reached an area sufficiently deserted. In that small park, bare of any other human presence, they find shelter between the big trees and suddenly disappear into thin air.

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A loud crack resounds in the darkness. A night owl stirs and flies away in a rustle of feathers and annoyed hoots. Violent coughing breaches the silent stillness of the night in the forest. It is pitch-dark and there is nothing to be seen. The two figures have appeared out of nowhere. The trees were so tall, the omnipresent green foliage so thick, that not even the moonlight reaches the ground. The world is submerged in shadows.

The tallest one of the two figures starts walking in a direction that apparently leads nowhere.

"Where are we? Where are we going?" Regulus asks in hushed tones, his brother turns around and places a finger on his lips, signaling the other to remain silent. There isn't another exchange between them after that. Putting blind faith in his brother, the smaller one follows the hem of the cape willowing in front of him.

They keep walking, making their way through the maze of the trees in the night. It must be approximately half an hour and before the vegetation starts to clear. In front of them appears a valley with a small village nestled at the bottom, a clear gurgling river travels its whole length like a single big silver ribbon. On the nearby hills little lights show the positions of other dwellings scattered in the slopes of the mountain. An old hunting cottage, accessed by an old rock path and an iron gate stands relatively nearby.

"Lüneburg? You've brought me to Germany?" questions the younger brother. Sirius givee him a look that silences him.

They keep walking until they reach the house. The front gate opens with a loud creak that, for a moment, causes both brothers to suddenly jump and look around to make sure they are still unnoticed. They cross the main garden, overgrown and wild, the darkness and solitude of the building looming ahead are more than a bit depressing. Sirius draws his wand and mutters a small series of incantations that force the old door to open with a groan.

Both brothers enter the house and make their way inside. The house is old and definitely dusty; it is plain to see that even if the garden may have left room for doubt, the house has been abandoned for a long time. It is clear that it has seen better times too. The furniture is more than several decades old, and most of the curtains are ratted and frayed at the edges. Dust swirls in the atmosphere, and cobwebs have settled on the chandeliers. All portraits have been removed from the walls leaving only shadows on the walls marking their previous positions. Despite that, it is quite well kept; it could easily be inhabited again.

Once in the parlor, Sirius lights a candle near a mirror and lights up the fireplace, filling the room with flickering light. Then he turns to his brother.

"This is one of the family properties." Regulus is about to remark that he already knew that, but Sirius ignores his intent and he desists. "I brought you here because it's been abandoned since Grandmother Irma decided that she didn't quite like Germany. It was once Uncle Alphard's and now it is mine. The good thing is no one would come here looking for you. Mostly because everyone things I sold the properties." Regulus nods and Sirius takes a couple steps towards his brother.

"I need to see the mark."

The younger man shudders. "Why?" He says as he holds his forearm close to his chest. Sirius rolls his eyes.

"The Death Eaters will find you through it. You know that. See what happened with McMullen. Maybe not right now… this house is protected by blood wards as old as the family and has every other piece of protective spell you can think of. I put all of them up a couple years ago. It's been one of my safe houses. Therefore you're impossible to locate right now. The house itself interferes too much with the signal of the mark for you to be traceable."

Regulus sags in relief. He'd never thought of that. But it is true. He knows Bellatrix complained once that ancient magic wards distorted the Dark Lord's signals. But he'd never thought it would ever save his life.

"…But they will, eventually. Once you step a foot outside the gates. Or if both, father and I die. Because then, you are going to be the owner of all this and you don't know how to keep the wards up and working, do you?" says looking at his brother sharply. Regulus shakes his head. "If that happens, and the wards flounder, they'll find you through the mark, and they will kill you. We need to remove it. Or at least try. Do you understand?" he asks, and the younger man nods. "Your forearm, show me."

The younger man stretches his arm out and rolls his sleeves up on his left arm. The tattoo of the Dark Mark is there, a sharp dark contrast against pale skin. Sirius frowns at the sight and grabs him by the arm to watch carefully the pattern of the tattoo.

Regulus is about to complain that it is most assuredly protected, but he remembers then that his brother had worked most of his life with wards, jinxes and protections of every kind. He is one of the best, and even the Death Eaters can't deny that. He isn't going to screw it up.

"I'll have to have a look at it, I need to know how it works, or else I'm working blindly here." He pushes Regulus on a chair and kneels on the carpet so he has the arm level to his eyes.

Without further elaboration, Sirius places the tip of his wand on the mark. His eyes become half lidded and his breathing slows with concentration. Regulus feels a bit alarmed. Surely Sirius needs to know how deeply _it_ is connected to him… but looking at it won't suffice, and he has the inkling that what he is about to do won't be pleasant at all.

Regulus feels a soul-deep intrusion immediately. He can feel the magic cursing through him, in his veins, bones, muscles. It is a magic alien to him; it feels far more intense and rawer to him, who has only been attuned to the gentle and timid vibrations of his own. It is white-hot brilliant and rough at the same time, like the rush of a tidal wave rapidly taking over every corner of his body. And still it's somewhat familiar. It would've been a touch far beyond invasive if not for his instinctive recognition of the hand behind it. It's an oppressive enough sensation as it was.

And despite knowing it is Sirius invading the privacy of his own body and mind; it is the most excruciatingly shameful experience of his entire life. He feels naked like the day he was born, his very core bared for the intruder to see. The feeling of asphyxia starts to become unbearable, nausea threatens to overcome him when Sirius finally decides to retreat. When he's gone Regulus is left gasping for air. He raises his head and finds Sirius in front of him, with a frown on his face.

"What did you find?" Regulus asks breathlessly, almost scared about his brother's reaction. Sirius shakes his head as if trying to dispel a bad feeling.

"It's disgusting. Your own magic is interwoven with the spells on this tattoo. Almost part of the ink itself, not the pattern or the motive as it is most usual." Regulus feels grateful that Sirius has bothered to elaborate, it makes him feel less lost, this way he has the impression they can find a way out of this. "This mark binds your magic to Voldemort's. That's how he controls all of his Death Eaters. It is a powerful kind of Dark Magic. Through that bond, you're feeding his magical core. The mark strengthens him, and weakens you. And the link is a complex series of very small, tiny really, links at irregular intervals. It's going to take days, weeks maybe, to untangle this knot, not hours, and we're running out of time."

"That means you can't remove it?" Regulus asks disheartened. Sirius looks at him with an upraised eyebrow.

"No, it means I have to think." he says. "I can't cut through this Gordian knot, because it may damage your ability to perform magic in the future."

The older man stands up and starts pacing up and down the room, looking at everything and nothing at the same time. He is thinking fast, and hard; his current speed of thought so high that you can almost hear the gears in his brain turning. He moves like a caged animal, walking in circles around his brother, reaching one end of the room then the other, and back to the same spot. Now and then he stops brusquely, only to start walking again. After what feels like hours, but was most likely not that long, he stops again and looks back at his brother.

"_Separate compartments_! That's it!" Regulus doesn't understand. But he does understand the sparkle of triumph in Sirius' eyes. "We'll have to leave it on you." Sirius continues. "I can't untangle all of this right now… and the fact it is warded against you doing it yourself only would add to the difficulty…"

"But…?" Regulus prompts.

"I can't remove the spell." Sirius says, "I might be able to separate it from you in the deeper sense… cut it off from your magic. It won't affect you anymore, even if it won't be gone."

"The tattoo will still be on my arm?" he asks, half alarmed. "What's to keep it from simply reporting my location?"

"We won't know anything for certain until we try. But I don't think it's got a tracking spell in it. It is more like he _senses_ you. Your arm." Sirius says, his voice stained with authority.

Regulus instinctively pulls back, thinking he is about to have his arm severed. Sirius seems to read his mind and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to amputate your arm. That wouldn't solve the problem. You'd still be entangled with that spell and likely end up dead anyways." That seems to relieve a little the younger man, who reluctantly offers his arm to his brother. Sirius grabs his wrist, keeping a strong grip around it. On the last moment he looks up to the scared eyes trained on his hands and takes pity.

"It is set so your magic is powering the spells that keep it in place and providing the magical support for it to work. The strain of powerful spells, most of them not meant to function continually for a long time, on his magic is minimal for it goes all on your own; it allows him to maintain as many of these as he wants. - Sirius explains. - Separating it should act like depriving a lamp of oil. The mark may still be there, but the signal will die off. Maybe we can even make it short-circuit."

He grins with a confidence that suddenly feels very reassuring and the younger man mirrors his brother's smile.

Sirius goes silent again, his lips moving noiselessly, the tip of his wand on the mark. Regulus can feel bits of power flaring and subsiding beneath the skin of his arm. A presence as invasive as it was when the mark was put on his arm. Minutes tick by, and he only watches silently the head bent over his forearm; trying valiantly to contain the nausea.

"Damn!"

The mark starts to sink back into his skin. The edges cut into the white flesh like sharp boiling knives. The tattoo curls upon itself, refusing stubbornly to die. He can feel it lurch and struggle with Sirius' magic when he cuts through the last binding spell. And he can feel the result of the struggle. It is slowly fading, but it refuses to do so without putting up a fight. His vision is a blur… Regulus' fear is bigger than he's ever experienced before. The last thing he can feel is an arm across his shoulder as the world slips out of focus.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he comes around, but when he does a sodden rag is swiping vomit from his lips and chin, the taste of bile strong in his mouth. The first he does is look back at his arm.

The mark is gone now, but the place where it used to be has been replaced by burnt skin, mangled flesh and tortured nerve endings. The wound is bleeding profusely. He can't quite move the whole limb.

Sirius hands him a piece of cloth to swipe the grime himself as he sets to work hurriedly in stopping the bleeding. He mutters healing spells with efficiency, trying to do as much damage control as possible. But the bleeding isn't stopping. Regulus has spent most of his life with strong cushioning spells on his arms and legs just to avoid something like this to happen. Blood weakness (1) doesn't attend to reasons and circumstances.

He really wants to know why Sirius would know how to contain a hemorrhage like this. Or why exactly Sirius had a vial of a generic coagulant on him. It isn't an affliction that is exactly common.

Sirius looks at it critically and then with a silver knife he extracts from his boot, he cuts himself on his right hand. He lets a small trail of his own blood pool in his hand with a bit of the potion before upturning it and pressing his wound together with his brother's. He maintains the pressure, until he feels the stickiness grow thicker and the blood flow slowly halt. Then, he retires it. Regulus' wound is ugly and charred but at least has stopped bleeding. He'd already forgotten what it was like having someone to do that for him. And he is feeling very weak. His head swims and sound comes a bit distorted. After applying a healing spell Sirius places a conjured bandage around the wound; not very effective, but at least it will stop the younger boy from reopening it or getting it infected and bleeding to death anytime soon.

"It's going to take a while to heal but I guess that you'd better and invalid than dead."

Regulus swallows, his thoughts still a bit muddled.

"Now, listen to me carefully." Sirius urges his brother, forcing him to look into his eyes. "You must promise me that you'll lay low."

"I'll do… whatever you tell me." He whispers, a hint of fear glittering in his eyes.

"You must change your name, at once. Find yourself the most muggle name you can come up with, not a hint of magic on it, got it?"

The youngest man nods. He knows not how yet, but he is far too confused to protest or ask for clarifications.

"Good. Secondly, you must never ever, under any circumstance use any kind of powerful magic; any kind of magic that could lead the German Ministry of Magic to you."

Sirius is holding his chin so his head doesn't dip and he keeps meeting his eyes; his other hand on Regulus' cheek in a manner that seems almost loving.

"You'll also live in the muggle world; the magical world is dead to you. You have been dead at least an hour. Getting my words?" again, Regulus nods. "And do not even try to contact the wizarding world; do not interest yourself in trying to know what's going on in there."

He is dead… of course that is what they will think happened. His Dark Mark signal just died. It is what _He_ would think. He is free as only a dead man can be. And what else can he do?

"You won't be hearing from me again. Don't try to contact me either. You are dead Regulus." the shorter boy nods again. "And do not under any, I repeat, any circumstance come back to England. I've already risked enough as it is. My neck is in as much danger as yours now."

"I won't, Sirius. I promise."

"Good." then Sirius turns around and heads towards the door, but stops looking for his coat. Then he turns back for a moment and looked at Regulus pensively.

"If you ever, by any reason… which you shouldn't; need to leave you have to remember something…" he seems to struggle to find a way to say this without seeming crude. "You're already way deep to your neck. Whatever else you do is falling on a vase that's already full. Disapparate. Move fast. Don't give the European ministries a chance to track your signal in time. Apparate as fast as you can from one country to another. Cross borders as often as you can. Do with a quick series, then stop. After a while do so again. They can't track you when you cross a border. Alarms go off, but they can't know where you've gone. By the time they guess you'll already be three countries away. It'll take even more time for several ministries to realize they've got the same problem. Get them tangled in the mound of bureaucracy required… to ask for foreign collaboration. They never do that well. Cross over to soviet lands as much as possible. Those are never helpful and they'll get stuck there without anything to do... don't get to your last destination apparating. It should make your trail impossible to trace… "

"Sirius!" The aforementioned man stops on his tracks and turns around to find his brother proffering that _thing_ in his direction, offering him the medallion.

"No, you keep it. I don't want anything to do with it. Keep it; don't have it lying around either. Try to destroy it if you can." Regulus nods. The older brother walks back to the door, but before leaving he turns back to his brother one last time. "Remember you are supposed to lay low!"

And saying so he leaves, slamming the door shut. His tall frame slips back into the darkness and the deep river of the actual living breathing people and human sorrows. And Regulus is left there, on the shore, nor dead nor alive, stranded forever and condemned to lie among the reeds and forbidden to look into the glittering waters, looking at his wound and scared to death. This is the last time he is ever going to see his brother, the last person on earth that might look at him with anything else but pity or contempt. And that is a frightening thought.

::::::::::::::

The sky is dyed with the red tint of dusk. The stagnant air is chilly nonetheless. A shovel of damp soil settles on top of the dark polished empty box. There are a few people present, but none of them talk. All of them are dressed in dark robes, even if most of them couldn't care less. The marker in the tombstone was plain, brief and impersonal.

It is a hurried affair. Failure such as this, stings. There are many things they could have thought would happen. This was never one of them. Many hopes were held and many calculated risks were taken… but fate said its last word. Fate has a weird sense of humor.

No human being would be able to sustain such a blood loss. No young man will cross again the door of the Ancestral House of the Blacks. There's no way it was an accident. Someone is guilty of it. And they don't know and can't ask, and on top of that it grieves them the shame and impropriety for the family not to have a body.

Travers accused the other, ignored son, who after all has already killed Wilkies, Guiles and Rosiers…

And Mr and Mrs Black now have no children left.

But the wind stirs and the people leave and the place is left deserted. Because no one really grieves, cares yes, but not strongly enough to freeze out in the weather mourning for a boy who lived too little to leave any lasting impression. After all he was no-one. Another pawn who believed he truly made a difference. And life goes on, and nobody will ever come back to this gravesite. One does need a heart to truly miss a loved one.

_R.A.B – Beloved son. 1961-1979. May he rest in peace. _

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(1) Regulus suffers from haemophilia, a congenital illness which the wizarding world calls _blood weakness_. It causes a blood deficiency that makes it impossible for their blood to coagulate properly. It is known as the plague of the aristocratic classes through all Europe. Regulus' family and many others of a magic background stretch the normal life span in those that are born with it protecting them with all kinds of spells to avoid bruises and cuts… but they can't make less grievous a wound inflicted magically.

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_Liked it? There will be more, but please:... review!_


	2. Chapter 1: In Skies Of Smoke And Dread

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn, betaed by the wonderful MKofGod. Thank you!_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

_This is WIP for the moment, and is also being revised._

_THIS CHAPTER IS NEWLY BETAED_

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**Chapter one – In Skies of Smoke and Dread**

_Germany, June 1994_

It is a beautiful early summer morning. The few stores on the main street of the village are starting their working day. The delivery truck has yet to arrive, and the post is still closed. The cock is overexcited today and has been insisting on delivering its wake-up call every five minutes for the last hours.

A tall man walks down the street, avoiding the shadows of the buildings and reviling in the warmness of the sun rays on his pale skin. He heads towards the bus stop. It is an important landmark that bus stop; of interest to anyone in the area. Being the only bus stop in at least 200 miles makes that to a couple of indications nailed to a wooden post.

He makes a couple of stops on his way, on purely ordinary and domestic business.

"_Gutten Morgen Herr Volkersile_.1" greets the man, with a god awful accent, to the local baker.

"_Gutten Morgen Herr Bell_." the baker greets back. As he watches one of his most regular customers leave up a bundle of bills on the counter to pay for this weeks tab.

Reginald Bell is an unusual fellow. He is the crazy but most assuredly rich Englishman that bought the cottage up the village hill some years ago. He is a discreet character and doesn't ever bother anyone. He is introverted and doesn't talk much about himself; he takes a healthy interest in the village's day-to-day, but keeps mostly out of anything.

He supposedly dedicates his time to observe the natural life of the place in his many walks across the forests, which he seems to know like the back of his hand. In the winter season he sometimes teaches English tourists skiing lessons; but only after he himself learned. He apparently likes it very much.

He is unmarried to their knowledge, and lives alone. He makes a decent conversation most times, and most neighbors find his hideous German a constant source of amusement.

In fact he is the least German-like person you could ever find. Physically, the only thing worthy of a man from central Europe is his height. Anything else, from being skinny to being far too dark-haired, is more than exotic in a place like this. Come to think of it, he screams British from every pore of his skin. His appetite is few, and his tastes rather peculiar. A while ago, after hearing several times in a month that the rations were far too big, the owner of the local tavern started putting whatever he left on his plate in a Tupperware and sending him home with it knowing it would take him a few days to come back. He left the place in an upheaval the first time he dared refuse beer and asked for tea. Goes without saying he hasn't repeated that mistake.

He goes to church every Sunday, prays like every good Christian. He helps around in the parish church now and then; and never complains when the women try to drag him and the other men into organizing something or other.

He goes to the pub on Fridays and indulges in beer as he watches half-heartedly the soccer game on the diminutive TV the owner has hanging in one corner, basking in the noise and liveliness of the patrons with a League rush.

He also likes to wake up with the sun and take the bus down to the lowlands at least once a week. Today is such a day.

He keeps walking and reaches the pub. But as today is early in the morning he is not going to watch any game. But the pub is the only one in the village and works around the clock. He enters and is greeted by a rotund woman, with a very German constitution.

"_Hallo, wie geht es Ihnen Herr Bell?__2__"_ she says as she keeps cleaning tables with efficiency.

"_Gut, danke Maria.__3__"_ the man says as he sits on a stool.

"_Was möchtest Sie?_" asks the woman. "_Möchtest Sie das Übliche?__4__"_

"_Ja, immer dasselbe_." after he says so, the woman serves him a pretzel. "_Und bitte, Ich möchte auch etwas Kaffe. Würden Sie mir noch eine Tasse bringen?__5__"_

"_Ja, näturlich__6__"_ she says giving him an enormous mug of coffee he starts sipping almost immediately. Grabbing his breakfast, the man rose and headed towards the door.

"_Auf wiedersehen Frau Maria_!7" Herr Bell says as he leaves.

"_Bis bald Herr Bell_!8" the woman calls back.

Bell walks down the street, nibbling his pretzel and sipping from his mug leisurely. He reached the bus stop and slumped on the old plastic chair Karl Grau put in a few years ago when he got tired of standing while waiting for the bus. He doesn't wait for the bus anymore, but the chair is still there. Bell finishes what he is eating and goes to throw it back to the bin. When he returns the bus hasn't come yet.

He lights up a cigarette, puffing small clouds of smoke in the air in front of him, watching it swirl and wane in the soft breeze. He looks at his wristwatch and he reads 9:28. He regards the gleaming figures for a few seconds. The bus is supposed to pass at 9:30, and knowing Germans, it will at the scheduled time exactly, not a minute earlier not a minute later. He half smiles to himself as he sees the bus turn the last bend of the road. Sure enough it's exactly 9:30.

He jumps on the bus and finds a seat by the window. The bus starts and he lets himself be lulled into a short nap. It is very early, but he doesn't have any other option, as the bus won't pass at his stop until midday at least. The road provides for a bumpy ride. It is a slow vehicle, as slow as a cripple waist-deep in a snow-covered spot, and it has to give way to a herd of sheep at least thrice.

He clutches at his left forearm as he idly contemplates the evergreen mountains passing through the window. He rubs it absentmindedly. His bad arm is giving him trouble as of late. The old angry puckered scar is red, redder than usual, but fortunately still cold to the touch. It has been bothersome because his nerves, which never truly healed, seem more sensitive than he would like.

He goes down the bus at the Town. It is the only one that's got a train, and it even has a train that reaches Munich. It is close to another river, he is not sure which one, but it makes the hair humid.

He heads towards the library; it is also the only library in the area. Probably, only worth conserving because it is close to the only school in the surroundings. He has come to pick up a book he was waiting for. But he'll also to help a bit around the place. He had picked up this habit out of boredom, because, beside church and soccer, there isn't much else to do. He helps the old librarian place the books that people leaves about the tables scattered through the shelves.

He opened the door and made his way up to the man's desk, making sure to greet him loud enough so he'll hear despite his growing deafness.

"_Gutten Morgen Herr Schikel_." greets the man with the terrible accent.

"Oh, Goot morrrning Herr Bell." says the librarian with English as bad as the other man's German is. In fact, the reason why Bell has decided to lend the wrinkled old man a hand is because it's was run by the only person that speaks a little bit of English in a two hundred mile radius. "I haf yourrr book. A kinder rrreturned it yesterday. Ich think it a pretty gut book…"

The Englishman smiled. "I'm sure it is… although it is a free country, were entitled to our opinions." the older man chuckled with a cracked sort of voice.

"_Ja, ja, richtig_. Do Ich charrge you now?"

"Yes, sure." the younger man gave a look around. "Where are those carts and boxes you needed help with?"

"Come with me." the librarian waved his hand for him to follow and led him towards one of the library corridors. "This is it." two huge boxes and a cart with used books stood in the middle of the corridor. "One of the librrraries von Hamburg sent me this, if you don't mind… I don't have the time to do everrithing!"

"Don't worry; I'll take care of it Herr Schikel."

After that the older man went back to whatever he had been doing, leaving the younger man to fix the big mess of books.

He reaches out for one of the boxes and starts pulling out books and placing them in the correct section. He patiently labels all of them. He places the new scientific books on the appropriate shelves among the ones that are older and nobody consults anymore. He curiously reads the summaries on the back cover of the novels before placing them in their designated place, and altogether avoids having much contact with the few sensationalist books that he comes across. It takes him about half the morning to end with the first box.

He starts them with the cart. He absentmindedly places the dog-eared copy of Goethe's _Faust_, and goes back to retrieve one of the many Nietzsche volumes that have been used by the kids this week. The encyclopedia volumes he drags towards the not-on-rent row and starts filling the gaping spaces that are plainly visible. He likes to replace the novels the most. It is a cluttered section of the library but is mostly one that everybody visits for pleasure.

Halfway the second box he encounter a big pile of newspapers. He casually goes over them. Some are German, some English; even there is a French one. He doesn't know why they send these. No one ever consults them. They aren't even recent! But these are old, and most people can't read English anyway. And if someone did he would soon notice that the assembly of old newspapers is not even regular, and wide spreads of time are missing.

He leafs through them paying little attention to the news about Margaret Tatcher, Prince James and even the Queen here and there, all mixed together with catastrophist predictions for the economy and detailed accounts of some soccer game or another. Suddenly, he sees something that makes him pause. It is a copy from two years ago of _The Guardian_. He scans the heading of the front page again for good measure and what he reads freezes his blood.

There is a picture of a man plastered under the heading. A mass of filthy, matted dark hair hangs down to his elbows. If his eyes weren't shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might as well have been a corpse. The waxy skin is stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looks like a skull. His yellow teeth are bared in a sort of smug grin. His eyes are fixed upon Regulus.

He has only seen such a state on a person in photographs of the Nazi concentration camps. There or… no, he won't think about it. Or rather, he wouldn't if the face staring at him from the papers wasn't so terribly familiar.

_Mass-murderer escapes prison. Sirius Black, accused of the murder of thirteen people is armed and dangerous._

He drops the paper as if burnt. He backs a couple of steps and stares at the rumpled paper on the floor in a catatonic state. Then he turns around and brakes into a half-run and out of the building, leaving behind a very confused librarian.

He doesn't even bother to wait for the bus this time, he knew the way back from heart. He took the shorter and notoriously dangerous dirt path through the woods.

He starts running along the road. He doesn't even think of the route or avoiding the cars. He runs on autopilot, his feet falling mechanically one before the other. The even rhythm of his respiration drowns momentarily the swirl of the thoughts I his head. _Mass-murderer? Impossible. Since when? When did this happen?_

The eyes on the photograph haunt him. He keeps seeing them after he closes his eyes for a few seconds. Tortured, desperate, hateful… His head refuses to believe it and yet his body has sprung into action and keeps going.

_How many years it's been? Good Merlin… _the deterioration was so bad. _How can I know they haven't caught him? Caught once, caught twice. Don't think about it!_

He scrapes his knees and shins in his reckless trek trough the rock slopes. He doesn't slow down even as the lower branches of the trees tear his faded jeans. He falls at least twice and scrapes both hands, although he is lucky enough to avoid major bleeding.

He keeps repeating to himself to keep it together. _And what are you supposed to do? What can you do?_

An hour later he enters the village running like he had Lucifer himself on his heels. His odd behavior might cause people to stare, but he doesn't care right now. Clouds of dust rise from the road from the contact with his worn-out muggle trainers. He barely registers someone asking him a question he won't be able to answer.

His house is shadowy even if it is early afternoon by now. It is in a spot where the sun rarely shines and the lights are all out. He heads straight to the desk on a dusty study on the second floor. He pulls the drawers open and lets their contents fall onto the floor. He doesn't care. He doesn't have much there. No papers identifying him he should worry about. No passport essential in such a crucial moment. Band even in his single-minded search the only think he is able to half-articulate is:

_How?_

He finally finds what he is looking for. It lays under a bundle of bills and a few coins he must have stashed just in case. It is long, and thin. The wooden stick now covered in dust. He kneels by the wooden surface of the desk, head propped against it holding it in his hands, limp.

He has gone for very long without touching this. He has come to convince himself that this was it. He had willed himself to forget, although he has done an poor job of it. Memories form almost seventeen years back come to haunt him with an insistence none of the things he has so far lived here can manage to do. He doesn't want to go back.

But he finds himself being tugged around to do exactly that, like a mindless puppet does by a larger force than itself. _What exactly am I expecting to accomplish all by myself?_

_You are dead._ He had said so many years back. The familiar longed for deep voice resonates trough his head with painful accuracy. And those god-awful crazed eyes staring back at him from a piece of paper. His head spins with the sudden discovery. His insides lurch when he thinks of everything that might have happened and he doesn't know of.

Regulus Black has been dead many, many years. He doubts nobody remembers him at all. Reginald Bell is a comfortable suit to wear. Nonetheless it is turning tighter by the moment. The sleeper is awaking from his deep slumber. The pale foggy figures of dreams shrink away as reality comes to bite him in his ass. _What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over_; he thought.

Now he finds himself hurrying through the corridors, barging into his bedroom, pulling what few clothes he owns and throwing them over his bed. He shrugs off his now irrecoverable garments and changes. He takes a duffle bag with him. Throws what little he may need for the moment in. The money he found goes somewhere in there too.

He pauses in the middle of the room. He feels lost. _Where to begin? _Go somewhere. Start moving, he really doesn't care where, but he's got to start somewhere. Disapparition does not sound the most agreeable option, but he's in a rush to get things done. Delaying the inevitable won't do it any less painful.

He hasn't done a bit of magic in some long fifteen years at least. Much less tried to apparate. Apparition is a tricky dangerous thing. But it is the fastest way to go. Saves you papers; and money too. He snorts. He has enough D's right now to be fairly sure he will get it right. It is something you never forget how to do. Determination, deliberation… sure. Destination is still hanging in the air but he is not choosy. Somewhere out of Germany will suffice.

He closes his eyes and purses his lips his right hand is tightly grasping his wand. There it goes. With a soft pop he leaves Lüneburg Schloss behind forever.

::::::::::::::

_Apparate as fast as you can from one country to another. _

A loud alarm goes off in the insides of the small office of the Apparition Control Center of the German Ministry of Magic. The man in charge of the surveillance rises from his chair and looks at the map hanging on the wall with a frown. An across-border apparition. Great. This is the last thing he needs. He picks up quill and ink to write a brief memo and warn the people from International Cooperation. But then he gazes again… and frowns. The red spot is popping up and down the map, like a mad-polka dancer. He sighs. And calls his boss.

The big boss is busy. He has a bunch of portkeys arriving almost at the same time that he has to authorize and is about to tear his hair out. The new guy knocks on the door and requests his help. He isn't in the mood. He is even less in the mood when he sees what the surveillance map has to say.

"Great. Just call the guys from Law Enforcement… we can't track down this one. Was made from an unplottable building. Call the International Coop. Department. Make them contact with the neighboring countries… We'll catch the bastard."

_Cross borders as often as you can. _

Germany to Istanbul. To Prague. To Morocco.

The images are now a blur. He has barely had time to regain his footing he is disapparating again. He keeps his mind resolutely in going somewhere deserted preferably. He has done a disillusioning spell on himself but he doesn't want to risk it.

_Do with a quick series, then stop. After a while do so again. _

He stops. He waits for an hour near a steep rock road in a rocky formation facing the desert.

To Switzerland. To Tangier. To Saint Petersburg. To Frankfurt.

_They can't track you when you cross a border. Alarms will go off, but they won't know where you've gone. _

The Germans are still trying to contact with the foreign delegates when the Department of magical Transportation detects another irregularity. This one is clearly near Cologne. Law Enforcement has already become involved in this; and they've taken control of the little office and thrown out the poor new secretary.

But as they're starting to get a more specific location, now they can trace the neighborhood, the presence disappears again. The agent slackens his jaw. He can't find the re-apparition in the map. It has disappeared again off-borders. This is going to take awhile…

_By the time they guess where you are you're already three countries away. _

When they manage to talk with the Turkish Ministry and compare data, the purpose of such a thing is completely wasted. The system there is quite deficient and they don't know even if the man is still in the country or has already left too… much less being able to tell where an apparator went.

About the second close call… the technicians say it came from the former URSS. They can't specify because the remains of the wall interfere in their inquiries. It will take a few hours to know exactly where.

The department is more than a little frustrated. They need to know exactly from where to distinguish a pattern here. They can't get that. The only thing to do is waiting for it to pop in again.

To Amberes. To Marseille. To Krakow. To Vienna. To Paris. To Oslo. To Dresden.

_It'll take even more time for several ministries to realize they've got the same problem. _

They've already got a pattern. Every fifteen-twenty minutes the presence pops-in again. It is doing so all around the country. The most they can do is pinpoint the city. The agents have rushed outside thrice already and nothing. They can't seem to catch the bastard.

He pops in and out without pause. Mostly lands on the capitals. But they can't eliminate possible destinations because sometimes repeats and sometimes he doesn't. They've been at this most of the day. Nothing so far.

Nine hours after all this started the Cooperation guys are flooded with international floo calls of different countries confirming that the situation is indeed grave. Twenty-seven countries as of now are affected by the traveling red-spot. All seem to come sooner or later back to Germany.

_Get them tangled in the mound of bureaucracy required… ask for foreign collaboration. _

To Amsterdam. To Stockholm. To Bruges. To Liechtenstein. To Munich.

The Russians are denying them further collaboration. They don't want to put their monitoring services in the chase. The French are insisting in a mound of useless paperwork and meetings to insure international treaties are not violated. And meanwhile _it_ keeps popping wherever he wants leaving everyone powerless to do anything.

_They never do that well. _

To Bremen. To Budapest. To Madrid. To Naples. To Athens. To Turin. To Hamburg.

The agents sit around the map and contemplate it aimlessly. Most of them are nursing their very own cup of coffee. Most of them are drowsy too. They're stuck in a bureaucratic mess, up to their noses with deny forms due to confidentiality-issues.

Most they can do its wait for it to get tired. It is incredible the mess a single stupid teenager can create when in need for a rush.

_Don't get to your last destination apparating. It should make your trail impossible to trace…_

He wouldn't dream of it. He apparates for the last time in Lyon. He makes sure not to do magic from now on. He slips away as quickly as possible in the hopes of passing through his chasers' fingers. He takes the last train to Paris.

He rests his head on the cool glass. He is tired. His whole body screams in agony. His head feels fuzzy and aches. He is dizzy and has waves of nausea. He is in need of a total shutdown. But his head won't allow it yet. His adrenaline running fast through his veins; head is working hundred miles per hour.

He makes his way to Calais. Under the rain and in the humid fog he waits for the ferry. He hears the splashes of the waves against the docks. Only a few odd people are so eager to cross the Channel in such weather.

He feels the droplets of water trailing through his face, dripping from his nose, and down his neck; slowly drenching his sparse clothing. He is cold, hungry, tired, almost stumbling on his own feet. But he won't allow himself a rest now. He has not earned it; has already been resting for seventeen years.

It is time to go back to the beginning of it all. Unfinished business calls. He hates unfinished business. It is time to go back home. To whatever end.

* * *

1 Good morning Mr Volkersile

2 Hello, how are you Mr Bell?

3 Good, thank you Maria

4 What do you want? The usual?

5 Yes, the usual. And please, the koffee is to take off

6 Yes, of course

7 Good bye Mrs Maria!

8 See you soon Mr Bell!


	3. Chapter 2: Of Truths Half Told

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter two – Of Truths Half-Told**

_Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, June 1994_

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is sitting in his office. At this time of the year, the school is almost deserted; the students have already gone home to their families and most of teachers have done the same. He finds himself alone with the ghosts and the domestic elves. He is working on school-related forms and reports of diverse nature that he is in no hurry to finish for now; very unlike the personal notifications he had to write some members of the Order of the Phoenix a few days back. The notification for the cessation of his tenure as Head of the Wizengamot lies open on the table with the official sealing wax torn off. It arrived yesterday by express owl.

"This cannot be so, how rude of them. Don't you thing so Fawkes?" he says talking to the scarlet Phoenix standing on the perch by the window. The Board of Governors is being troublesome again, nothing new for an experienced Headmaster. The bird looks at him, if he weren't a bird he'd almost look amused, and cocks its head. The old man shakes his head and scribbles something on the piece of parchment.

His troubles with the Ministry of Magic are getting worse by the minute. Cornelius Fudge is holding on with teeth and claws to the wistful image of a perfectly peaceful little world. It will make it very difficult to make the wizarding population aware of the real danger looming right over their heads.

After thirteen years, Lord Voldemort is back.

He rises slowly, with a stretch of aging muscles. He decides to go down to the kitchens and get some supper, after all it still is 8 o'clock. The constant struggle with purposefully dense and generally unintelligent people can wear down anyone, and even more so himself, if he may say so even if it is what he does for the most of his time. Besides, he feels the craving for sweets, and stretching his legs won't do any harm.

Sometime later, the Headmaster heads back to his office. He climbs the stairs behind the gargoyle, after changing yet again the password, and opens the door to his rooms.

Once inside he notices a dark, tall figure standing next to the fire place, waiting. He is facing the fire, so he can't see his face; only his back and the slopes of his shoulders. He recognizes almost instantly the mop of black hair and the lanky frame.

Albus Dumbledore shakes his head, what can Sirius possibly want now? He will be in the need to summon all his remaining strength if he must deal with an agitated Sirius. Sirius Black can become the most argumentative person in the entire length and breadth of the world, when he's got even a vague a feeling that something is not going according to plan. And things have long stopped going according to plan.

"What do you want that it was so urgent you couldn't wait two days, son?" asks the older man, kindness all over his tone.

"I need to talk to you Professor." states the other man.

As he slowly turns around, coming to face the Headmaster it becomes obvious that he has committed a mistake. We must recognize that it is an understandable mistake. His eyes are old and tired and his sight it just isn't what it used to be. Sirius Black could very well have gotten rid of the tangled mane of hair he has worn as of late. It would also not be strange to find him wearing muggle clothes of some kind, even if it is with a wizarding cloak on top.

But the face is lacking a fair number of wrinkles despite the obvious resemblance, and the skin doesn't stretch that taut over the high cheekbones. And although he _is_ thin, he isn't _rail_ _thin_. The piercing grey eyes stare back with the same tortured expression he is used to, but the sadness and the obvious effort at the concealment of vulnerable emotions is not something Sirius Black usually attempts anymore. The voice has the right tone but is still velvety timbre, and has not acquired the scratchy edge Sirius' obviously has.

Dumbledore doesn't move. Doesn't make any outward sign of disconcert or worry, his placid expression doesn't waver. He appears almost omnipotent in his quiet self assurance, and is suddenly glad he didn't call his visitor by the wrong name. That would have definitely spoiled the effect. But his eyes flash with the quiet blue fury that only a very patient man is capable of experiencing.

Dumbledore is an old man. Too old and too wise to label anything as utterly impossible. He's seen far too many of things deemed impossible turn all too true. The lamentable fact is that no matter how harebrained this sounds the only logical explanation to all of this, is that he is talking to a dead man who has had a sudden change in clothing taste. But he has him here in the flesh and he's pretty sure that he isn't going nuts, no matter what the Prophet and Rita Skeeter may say.

His eyes are blaring and unforgiving and his stance has become imperceptibly rigid.

"I guess it was not who you were expecting? What exactly gave me away Professor?" he asks in a voice that is both tired and halfway amused.

He has seen, or heard of far too many people who are supposed to be dead that are in fact alive. Peter Pettigrew is a prime example and the first of them, Barty Crouch the mostly recent one; and more importantly Lord Voldemort himself roams around in a fabricated body. He probably shouldn't be surprised.

"What I would like to know is how you have been able to come into my office Mr Black." asks Dumbledore frowning.

His voice has lost any trace of kindness it might have had too.

"Creativity can get you anywhere." he answers cryptically and his blank face gives nothing away. Not even when he holds his gaze he is able to see much more than a solid brick wall behind those cold eyes.

"Regulus Black is supposed to be dead." states the old man. "I gather they were wrong?"

"Can't believe everything they say." Black's voice is emotionless, his expression grave. He is not going to relinquish information willingly, and will fight defensive-wise. And it is just ever more puzzling what is he doing here, at Hogwarts.

"I must admit that there is a small detail that is quite bothering me… what's a Death Eater doing in my office, Mr. Black? Unless you've come here to kill me…" Regulus shakes his head and his right hand dismissively, making obvious how absurd the suggestion is.

"No, I have no intentions of putting an end to your existence Headmaster. As for the Death Eater part… I guess it is painfully obvious we've come a long way from there." says the younger man straight-faced.

"So it all amounts to this…" Albus Dumbledore _is_ getting more curious by the moment. "You are obviously not going to kill me, not even with the intention of regaining whatever trust Voldemort might have had towards you…" he can see the young man startle at that. "Voldemort himself hasn't mentioned you when he's spoken of those disloyal to his person, as my reliable sources can attest. But you aren't amongst those he considers loyal either… in fact if we did not know any better we'd think he thinks you dead. You appear to have fooled He Who Can Not Be Fooled…"

He lets the silence ring heavy between himself and his new object of study, who has lowered his head so his hair falls over his face effectively shielding his eyes.

"What do you want from me that I may have to offer?" says Dumbledore finally.

"I want protection… and an accurate account of recent events as you may know them. I have not been anywhere news might have reached me in a long time." He says and waits expectantly for an answer. He is strongly grasping the arms of the armchair he has lowered himself into. Regulus sees the moment in which what he says and what he implies are processed fully.

"And you aren't asking for nothing."

"I know that no one gives anything for free… I have important information you may want to have." Dumbledore sat back on his chair, his elbows resting on his desk, and laced his fingers in front of him.

"We shall start by the beginning. What prove can you give me that you deserve my trust?" Dumbledore inquires mildly. The initial confrontation is almost forgotten. He may not have proof, but time has made him a good judge of character, and he is pretty sure that Regulus Black is in search for information he cannot obtain otherwise, and that is almost proof enough for him. At least he can't obtain it from Tom Riddle.

"You'll have to believe in the sincerity of my collaboration. I have no way to prove I don't have any connection with your enemies Professor Dumbledore. I could be a spy; I am certainly a fugitive…"

"Then we shall formulate my question differently… how come you are alive and well, Mr Black… and no-one was none the wiser?" Says Dumbledore, inquisitive mind curious, but aware that unless he is able of provide Regulus Black of the knowledge he seeks, he will not reveal anything_._

"I severed all kind of connection with my past seventeen years ago…" he seems reluctant for a moment but the leans in. "My supposed death was the logical explanation to cover up for this."

He bares his left arm up to the elbow and lays the limb on the desk in front of Dumbledore. What he can see is very different from what he has seen so far in the bodies of any Death Eater, living or dead. There is no mark there, despite Voldemort's return, but a vast expanse of taut skin grown in the likes of what grows after a grievous burn, the flesh and skin are puckered in some places around the contour of the old wound, and it is plain to see that there is muscle tissue missing there by the appreciable dipping into the flesh.

"You did this yourself?" He contemplates the ex-Death Eater and sees vacillation there; an interesting story no-doubt. "Your arm cannot have been the same, am I right?"

"No. It hasn't ever been the same… it's mostly useless. I didn't do this to myself, of course not… The Mark, it is made so you can't do it yourself." His teeth audibly click with a strange finality.

He waits for another question that will no doubt drag answers out of him he'd rather not give. He is not ready to mention Sirius, his brother. He doesn't know of the old man's inclination to listen for certain; or even what his reaction to his older brother's name might be.

"I doubt very much an insider would be willing to help you with that… unless they're dead." Dumbledore prompts quietly. Regulus shakes his head negatively.

"I didn't realize what was going in England until I came back and found a couple of newspapers." He says. Dumbledore doesn't seem frazzled by the non-sequitur. He knows he'll get his answers if he is patient enough. Regulus motions to the scar. "It didn't bother me much more than normal. And although it is an event I have to take an interest in it is not the reason I came back in the first place.

Dumbledore sizes him up a couple of times. Then, suddenly, a great deal of the unexplainable international complications of late becomes suddenly clear:

"You were the hand behind central Europe's apparation chaos." he chuckles. Now that he knows with such certainty the answer, the whole incident is almost laughable. "They're still trying to figure out where their system is foundering, in the Ministry."

"Their international emergency cooperation is floundering." He deadpans.

"If you didn't know of Voldemort's return… why did you return?" asks Dumbledore.

"Seeing the face of the only relative you've got left who's not going to murder you on spot stamped on the front page of some muggle paper can snap a man out of his blissfully oblivious plane of existence." But Regulus, for all the meaning behind his quiet declaration, does not offer any further elaboration.

"Ah. You did not know…" Dumbledore returns to studying the tips of his thumbs. "What's exactly that you are afraid of, child?"

"I'm not afraid." He says defiantly, and in that very expression that is so similar to his brother's, even if he probably doesn't notice. "Not of Sirius. He went through too much trouble all these years ago to keep me alive to go and murder me in my sleep." He watches by the corner of his eye Dumbledore's reaction. It is the first time in this conversation and otherwise seventeen years that he mentions his brother. There is none.

"I don't believe he did all that. It cannot be…" he whispers through his teeth. He is leaning forward and his glinting eerie eyes are staring fixed, eagerly and almost desperate, at the old face of Albus Dumbledore.

"You know he was accused of the murder of twelve muggles and a Wizard member of the Order of the Phoenix… besides giving up the location of the Potter's hiding place, from which he was the Secretkeeper, to Voldemort. Those are no small charges…"

He sees Regulus visibly flinch, and look away.

"He couldn't possibly… it doesn't make sense." He explodes. He stands up and starts pacing around the room, suddenly the walls too small for him to breath and think properly. "He wouldn't have saved my life had he been a Death Eater! He would have happily murdered me right there and won himself a higher favour… I _was_ a traitor!"

"There were witnesses."

"Witnesses? Witnesses can be fooled!" he snaps. "Many Death Eaters committed a number of crimes they were only suspects to, because there was no solid proof! And they decide to take into account a bunch of muggles?"

"I knew in good authority that he was the Potter's Secretkeeper."

"He would have never done that! He was a reckless self-righteously honourable annoyance! I can't explain it but…" he pauses and takes a breath. "I know Sirius has killed before… as most of your other people for that matter, those were times of war… but he is not a _murderer."_

Black's voice is stained with hurt and confusion, and the voice has taken a vehement note which is oddly desperate. The hurt's depth is almost palpable by his blatant refusal to believe in the most reasonable explanation. As if he doesn't want to believe anything bad to do with his brother. It is a pity, Dumbledore thinks, that these poor children were so taught how to hide their better traits.

"You said he helped you. I don't seem to see exactly how." Dumbledore finally asks. Perhaps putting an end to this tortuous part of the conversation is not a bad idea. "He got you out of the country, didn't he?"

"Yes… did this too." he says waiving aimlessly at his forearm.

"I must admit you have managed to fool me Mr Black." he is met by an aloof distrusting glare; and he smiles benevolently. "It doesn't happen often. It is not something many people can be proud of. I do wonder why Sirius never mentioned it? Apparently he always knows, and hides, far more than he lets on."

Dumbledore, he has known for a long time, is fallible. He has made innumerable mistakes that can attest to that. But Sirius Black, bright brilliantly broken Sirius Black has successfully hidden something of importance from him twice in his life. _Fool me once, shame on you Sirius Black. Fool me twice, shame on me_; he thinks. Even when just a year before closed in a tiny office alone, when Sirius agreed to let his rather impressive mental defences so Dumbledore could see, his sincerity... Even then he'd been successfully hiding something else from him.

"Sirius…"

"Your brother is innocent." says quietly Dumbledore, forestalling the need to continue the question Regulus has left hanging in the air. "He has also the uncanny ability to fool me. With this one, it's already been three times. Oh, do not worry, none of them were prejudicial to our cause… the consequences were."

"Are you saying helping me… I would never forgive myself if it caused him any problems." he mutters.

"Oh, but his sudden disappearance was suspicious at the time. So was his obstinacy; his unwillingness to let his guard down. He is quite skilled at occlumancy, as you surely know."

"It would have caused him lots of problems had he let it be known! He helped a Death Eater! Former Death Eater."

"I understand. Even if I don't quite agree with his decisions." Dumbledore says calmly. After a small pause, he goes on. "He must love you very much… for he has never mentioned you any of the times he was interrogated… not seventeen years ago, not a year ago when he was re-captured… it would have given him a less guilty appearance." Regulus' face is the very picture of alarm. "Don't worry… he escaped, _again_."

The sigh of relief is almost audible.

"I guess that after all, blood _is_ thicker than water."

"The Blacks will never cease to surprise me. There are many ways in which Sirius has managed to surprise me since I met him. And the world obviously doesn't know you at all." Regulus smirks.

"He escaped from Azkaban?" he asks curious, now that his worries are finally assuaged.

"Yes." Dumbledore answers gravely. "The Ministry was in an uproar for more than a year."

"How?" he himself is puzzled. It is supposed to be impossible. He has always had his older brother in high regard, but this suddenly almost seems too much. Not once in six hundred years of history has anyone ever escaped from Azkaban.

"You'll have to ask him." Dumbledore shrugs. "Although I doubt even he himself knows."

"There are only too many things I should ask him, and I probably never will…" he trails off. "How is he? Do you know where he is?"

"He's still on the run. As for where he is… I do know where he is, most of the time." answers the professor.

"Now, you told me to have certain useful information." Regulus nods, grave but earnest. "You have all my attention, Mr Black." says the Headmaster as he leans back on his chair.

He explains in a brief clipped way everything that happened the night he disappeared, from beginning to end, only omitting certain details, mostly to do with the horcruxes. When he is done, Regulus feels veritably wrung out. But an incredible weight has been removed from his shoulders after almost twenty years.

"What I don't really understand is why were you in such a haste to leave Lord's Voldemort service…"

"There were many reasons. Idealism, when badly applied, without a valid and rational cause is only fanaticism… Hindsight is always clairvoyant. I wouldn't have survived much longer anyway. I would have been asked to do something I couldn't."

"He would have. His power resides in fear, even amongst his followers." Dumbledore agreed. "It is common for him to ask for a trial. Either you accomplish it and you can never go back; or you don't and you become a traitor." he watches the introspective nod quietly. "I guess then, this wasn't the case?"

"No. It came to my knowledge… through a series of coincidences a matter that is by no means light." he turns himself so he is facing Dumbledore again. "He made a horcrux."

He grimaced, as if the mere thought nauseated him. Dumbledore didn't allow himself the moment of surprise.

"He does not believe in anything but his own power and immortality." explains Regulus. What he doesn't mention is that he actually has one in his possession, steadily beating against his abdomen in the leather pouch he has strapped on himself, hidden under his clothing. He knows certain things are better kept secret.

"Did you literally hear about it, or you inferred?" Dumbledore's demeanour is graver that it has been in the whole conversation.

"Inferred. But I am more than certain about it. I think... I know it does sound absurd… that he made more than one. He was hiding them by then. I'm almost sure he entrusted one to Lucius Malfoy, and one to the Lestranges that I know of… I couldn't go back with something this big hiding in my thoughts. No-one was supposed to know."

"This I already suspected. This is very important information indeed." he says. "Why didn't you come immediately?"

"I told Sirius about it, but I have no idea if he ever mentioned it to you." he answers. He is loath to drag him into this, least of all when Dumbledore seems to trust Sirius. Dumbledore remains silent for a while, obviously thinking about Regulus' words.

"He did, rather obliquely a couple of times." he answers.

"I'm sure he's been extremely circumspect about it all. He knows as well as I do this is not something you just spread around." he snorts. "He didn't seem much surprised when I told him. What am I saying, of course not! We're _Blacks_. I don't know if you are truly aware of what that _means_ Professor. If I was aware of their nature, so is Sirius."

After almost a whole minute of silence, hearing the rustle of the forest's trees in the wind Dumbledore speaks again:

"Your circumstances do not put you on Voldemort's graces." He finally says.

Regulus lets out a bitter laugh. And he shakes his head ruefully.

"That's why I need the Order of the Phoenix's protection now that I've come out of hiding." says the young man quietly.

"You'll have it. But I doubt that your intention was to hole yourself again into a hidden corner."

"I'll like to have the chance to redeem myself." states the younger man. "I may be more than a bit old-fashioned, but it is my opinion that a man has to do whatever is in his power to make his own wrongs right." Dumbledore tilts his head a bit, waiting for him to finish. "Someone told me a long time ago that a single good action doesn't redeem a life of wrong. It is time for me to do something."

Dumbledore seems to think about the younger man's request.

"I doubt that in your current status you can do much more than offer an insider's look. Your active collaboration wouldn't do more than endanger you needlessly… But if by then you're still interested there will be a reunion at this same office, by eight o'clock in two days."

Regulus Black agrees silently. He seems to have spent all the words he is willing to relinquish. He then stands up and heads for the door.

"I'll be there." and with a small bow of his head from the door's threshold, he leaves.

::::::::::::::

Back in the cheap pension in which he has spent the last days Regulus Black sits on the edge of the mattress and lets his head fall into his hands.

He might just have done something very stupid. He truly had no way of knowing if he had truly convinced Dumbledore of his sincerity, or if he would find a swarm of aurors going down on him when he returned.

Then again, Sirius had always held Dumbledore in the highest regard. And certainly, he was a cunning shrewd old bastard, but he didn't truly force anyone's hand. And he did say Sirius was innocent. So he believed it, right. He was starting to get a headache.

_You're in this already, might as well go with it 'til it ends. _


	4. Chapter 3: The Tides Start Turning

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter three – The Tides Start Turning**

During Voldemort's first rise to power back in the 1970s, Albus Dumbledore gathered an assorted group of people from varied origins, backgrounds and profession with the common purpose of bringing Lord Voldemort's reign to an end. They called themselves The Order of the Phoenix. The diversity and dedication to the cause of its members were a clear representation of Dumbledore's ideals in an on itself. He himself led its effectives during the eight-year open war between 1973 and 1981.

During those dark years, it managed to group some of the brightest, most promising figures in magical Britain; at least most of those who were not in league with Lord Voldemort himself. Very few are left now of those. Many paid dearly for their idealistic pursue of equality, and would never live to see the second round.

The Order of the Phoenix, died of course, of natural death by disuse after the events that led to the Potters deaths the 31 October of 1981. It was effectively dissolved six months after that.

But Voldemort is back, looming again above Britain with his menacing presence; and the members of the Order are not idle. Swiftly and quietly its surviving effectives reassemble in the backstage of a sceptical England. The Order of the Phoenix, like the Phoenix from which it takes its name it's rising from its smouldering ashes.

It is minutes before eight o'clock in the evening. The meeting is imminent, and due to begin in no time. Despite this, Dumbledore himself is nowhere to be found, and it is presumably to be delayed until he, being its founder and official leader, decides to arrive.

Five people wait inside Headmaster Dumbledore's office, some remnants of the Order of the Phoenix that are assembled in lieu of its imminent restoration. Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore's effective second-in-command in all matters off the battlefield, is standing rigidly close to the Headmaster's desk, talking quietly with Alastor _Mad-Eye_ Moody one of the most belligerent members of the organized resistance. The ex-auror still is one of the most valuable assets the Order possesses. He used to take command of the tactical operations fifteen years ago, and his brisk but efficient ways have the implicit trust not only from Dumbledore and MacGonagall, but from all. His blue eye, roams restlessly over the other occupants of the room.

Severus Snape, long nose and greasy hair, stands on a corner leaning against the wall, but clearly not trying to be unobtrusive, as he is visibly scowling at much anyone who looks in his direction. He looks rather upset, but most would argue the point saying that this is his natural state.

Sitting on an armchair fairly close to the windows is Sirius Black, who albeit a bit cleaner that he has been in the preceding months, still looks as shabby and dodgy as he did in his last trip to Hogwarts. His muggle clothes, clearly stolen at some point, are frayed and will not look clean no matter how many times he washes them. Nonetheless he sits as if he owns the place and has his feet on a small coffee table. He is talking softly to Remus Lupin, answering with grumbling grudging reticence the friendly chatter. Lupin merely stands by his friend and tries to dissolve his dark mood, quite unsucessfully.

Dumbledore has expressly talked with every one of the now present about Sirius, and not one of them is going to discuss the headmaster's word. But their eyes wander often and the atmosphere is charged with uncertainty.

Others arrive slowly. Dark haired-round faced Hestia Jones enters closely followed by the stately-looking figure of her friend Emmeline Vance. The first avoids actively meeting Sirius' eyes, or looking much in his direction; the later makes an incredible show of not being bothered. Elhpias Dux arrives soon later, his silver hair all dishevelled from the unpleasant wind from today. Podmore's straw-coloured hair arrives with not much more delay in far a better state, and his square-jawed face breaks into a confident smile he even dares throw Black's direction. Diggle's over-eager presence is blatantly evident since the very moment of his arrival, violet hat trembling violently. Mundungus Fletcher is still notably missing by eight, but as he is often nicknamed _Dung_, everyone can imagine this is not a rarity.

Molly and Arthur Weasley were not in the original Order, but at the time had more than good reason not to despite their obvious sympathising ideals. Molly's own brothers were members at the time. Bill, their eldest son arrives five minutes late, but has also joined the Order without much contemplation.

The quiet whisper that filled the room stops immediately as one last figure enters the room. Twelve pairs of eyes pierce through the man standing rigidly by the door, who surveys them just as uneasily as they look at him. They display incredulity and especially distrust. Sirius can't really be counted amongst them because he just gazes lazily through half-lidded eyes at the man, not seeming very surprised at all.

The man is wearing a pair of muggle jeans, a sweater, an ample jacket, and some old worn trainers. In fact he couldn't look more muggle. His hair is also short, although it is still somewhat longish by the fringe. Maybe the gaping would be less pronounced if his appearance wasn't that which Sirius Black himself would have had if twelve years in Azkaban hadn't ravaged his body.

The long silence soon turns awkward. Some are not exactly sure of what they are seeing, other are afraid to believe their eyes, and others are simply too shocked to speak.

The first on to react is Snape, shell-shocked and disquieted, but malevolent nonetheless in his lash-out. He kept throwing daggers at him through his eyes.

"Black!" he hisses. His voice is stained with hate and more than bit of resentment. Regulus returned his gaze levelly. "What sort of stupid joke is this!"

"Sometimes I wonder why some kinds of idiocy are more widely tolerated than others. Yours is a case apart." he speaks venomously in return.

"Whoever you are this trick is not working… Regulus Black is dead." he spats angrily. "there are only so many people that can rise from the dead, and that looser is clearly not one of them!" he sneers.

"It is so _nice_ to see you again Snape." his voice is impregnated of some kind of arrogant quality that is an insult in and on itself, and so icy the Yeti would shiver. "No, I am most assuredly _not dead_." and with a smirk he adds. "Were I dead I think I would feel more, I don't know, I guess… _dead-like_?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Moddy pointing his wand at him, but doesn't take outward notice of it. Lupin can't avoid thinking that if it is not Regulus Black right before them, he sure makes a fine impression of him.

Regulus does look at his brother attentively from the corner of his eye. He looks a fright. He is watching from any reaction at all. Everything would be better than this impassibility, this not knowing. After a couple of minutes of no-one moving a finger, Sirius slowly lowers his feet from the table and turns around to face completely his newly-arrived brother.

"I wonder exactly which part of a sentence as simple as '_Don't come back'_ you failed to understand?" he asks. He doesn't sound angry; his voice is curiously flat and expressionless. His tone is dangerously even, his voice deceptively sweet. No-one in his sane mind would interpret this as a welcoming exchange.

Although apparently the man shows as much resentment and displeasure at the newcomer, his statement does bring more than a few looks of surprise. It becomes obvious that he doesn't share Snape's scepticism. No-one says anything, but Moody clutches his wand with more force than necessary.

"Moody, you can lower your wand. If he had wanted to kill any of us he would have been really stupid when he's outnumbered more than ten to one." Sirius drones, his face only displaying an irritating sort of aloof amusement at the situation.

But Mad-eye Moody does not lower his stance. He puts on an irritated grimace at the ongoing staring contest and grabbing Lupin's wand out of his hands he quickly _action-es_ his brother's wand. It leaves Regulus' jacket pocket and reaches Sirius' hand neatly. He then throws it at Moody and returns a startled Remus his wand.

"There Moody. He's unarmed now." Regulus frowns.

"I would have laid it down freely; had you let me." Sirius nails him to the wall with his stare. His own uncomfortable position in this whole situation is barely perceptible.

"That would have meant having your hand near that wand. Giving cause for Moody here to make a nice meat chops out of you…" he responds unpleasantly, finally breaking the icy wall. "That was an idiotic suggestion, even coming from you."

Finally Moody lowers his wand, very reluctant. Sirius conjures a high-backed, plainly uncomfortable chair out of thin air (wandlessly, but everyone is far too busy looking at Regulus to notice). He points Regulus to it, fully expecting for Regulus to comply, of course.

"Auch, no need to be rude." he protests as he is swept from behind by a suddenly angry chair.

"You didn't answer my early question." he drones. "Why have you come back?"

"He's back isn't he?" He answers as if it is obvious. But Sirius keeps looking at him from a scant meter and a half away and it makes the underside of his collar itch.

"I just didn't want to listen to you." He finally hisses to Sirius, low enough that he's fairly certain very few actually understand him. He can see the curl of Sirius' right hand, and he is not sure if the motion is meant to repress the urge to strangle him or just punch him. "Perhaps I saw my brother's face all over a _muggle_ paper, looking like he had gotten out of Mathausen!"

The his last words crackle in the air, and Regulus becomes aware that he's shouted the last words.

"_Mathausen_?" asks Lupin. Regulus shakes his head. In that same moment, Professor Dumbledore enters the round office and answers for him.

"A muggle Austrian concentration camp for war prisoners back in the 1940s." he answers helpfully. "Shall we begin?" The fact that Regulus Black just used a muggle expression, passes mostly unnoticed in the swirl of activity and chairs Dumbledore's arrival provoke.

"I assume most of you already know young Mr Black, but in case someone doesn't this man here is Regulus Black. He's recently brought to my attention relevant information that still is very useful." He says pointing at him. But Snape, obviously, is not having any of it.

"The only reason this one is here is because he's afraid of possible retaliations… if he is who he says he is!" he spats.

"Severus…"

"No, it is alright." says Regulus quietly, while raising his right hand. "I'm afraid you'll have to believe me; or rather Dumbledore. Are your excuses anymore convincing, Snape?"

"It is impossible to stop being a Death Eater! He will find you through the mark…" he shouts. "…and if he hasn't already it's because you are not what you say you are! Neither of both!"

He is hysterical, confronting a dead man and an elusive escapee with blind fury and little objectivity. Regulus can't help but let out a bitter bark of laughter. It is easy to remember why you have always hated this man. Suddenly he raises his left arm and allows the sleeve to slip down to his elbow, exposing his scar where all can see it.

The wound, now familiar to Regulus, is obviously a shocking battle-scar in its own right. Where the mark should have been, a big gaping hole opens in the flesh of his forearm. Despite being old, it looks rather raw and painful, still agonizingly red. But the ugly vision seems enough to dissipate any doubts for now.

Dumbledore coughs to get the attention back to him:

"Well, now that all's settled, we have a meeting to attend to."

Once the meeting properly starts, things go smoothly from there. Many things are discussed during the course of this meeting. Most of them of capital interest to the posterior progression of the war. Dumbledore himself starts talking of the recruiting reliable people who would come to fill the diminished ranks of the Order. Some of them quickly suggest names of approachable people on that respect.

Molly and Arthur jump at the occasion to announce that their second son, Charlie, currently in Rumania is amendable to join them, if he doesn't have to come back to England. Dumbledore readily agrees that it would be wise to have an asset outside Great Britain.

Later on it is decided that Moody and Arthur will bear the responsibility combing through and recruiting amongst Ministry personnel. Arthur within the Ministry as a whole, and Mad-eye amongst the auror force in particular as he himself has trained many of them.

Dumbledore and Snape both bring them up to date in regards of the events a couple weeks before and Death Eaters' current activities. Discouragingly enough, despite the imprisonment of some of the more dangerous followers of Voldemort, there are still out there many more than they would like.

It is when they come to speculating about Voldemort's next moves that Dumbledore quietly fills them in the likelihood of attacks to Harry and the Ministry both, soon.

The agreement for the prompt creation of a guard duty rooster on Privet Drive comes quickly. Arabella Figg, despite her unfortunate lack of magical skills, remains the primary contact for any irregularities in that area, both regarding Harry and incidents when on watch.

They all squirm in their seats when Dumbledore uncloses Voldemorts more than likely interest (confirmed of course by Snape) in a prophecy made fifteen years ago, that now resides in the Department of Mysteries inside the Ministry. A permanent nocturnal watch there, as is logical has already been suggested, and it is a bold move. That requires much more nerve to carry on.

After three hours of gathering, there is one last issue that needs to be mentioned. At last, Dumbledore speaks again:

"There is one last issue we must address today: does anyone know a place conveniently communicated the Order could use as a Headquarters in the near future?" he inquires. "The former headquarters are out of question as they were demolished three years ago. If anyone knows of such a place, please address me as soon as possible!"

"Hogwarts is a safe place." comments Moody.

"The castle will be filled with students in a few months and that is too great a risk to take, Moody." McGonagall readily answers. All of them nod at her words.

"You are right Minerva." acquiesces Dumbledore. "Many members of the Order cannot afford to come close to such a closely guarded emplacement. Hogwarts may be safe, but it leaves little room for discretion, and we could not occupy it for long periods of time; and it is too big a risk with young children around. As a Headmaster, I cannot allow it."

The room is left in silence again, meditating about the problem at hand. Regulus watches the other members of the Order in the meantime. He lets his eyes sweep hurriedly over Sirius a couple of times, noticing the uninterested pose he has adopted. The silence only grows heavier. He turns his head to look at his brother and their eyes meet. Sirius holds his gaze steadily, conveying, in that peculiar way of his, some kind of unspoken agreement. Regulus turns back to Dumbledore:

"Our parents are dead, aren't they?" asks the younger man. The rest of the group seems to be baffled, and stare at him openly.

"Yes." Confirms Dumbledore hesitantly. "Your father died three years after Sirius' imprisonment and your mother died ten years ago." Regulus nods.

"I suppose our late mother's house will do, then?" asks the young man, eyeing carefully the only other person with a say in the matter. Sirius concurs with a quiet and grudging nod of assent, almost invisible if you aren't looking for it.

"Where it is that?" asks Mad-eye in his best all-business briskness.

"In London, near Caledonian Road" states Sirius quietly. "about a mile, or a bit less, from King's Cross. In walking distance from the Ministry, if you can walk for an hour."

"You think it's safe?" asks Podmore.

"It's safe. Even by Mad-eye's standards. The place is unplottable, has all kind of wards and protections around it… the basic foundations are centuries old. It is blood-warded, and I am the current master. Security should not be a problem."

Mad-eye nods appreciatively. It sounds good so far.

"Well, then so be it." says Dumbledore with a smile. "We would be very thankful if you could start readying the house for the next meeting in two weeks. Unless the present state of affairs changes for good, you shall both remain there." Sirius makes a grimace. "Any compelling news, please, contact me directly, or in defect Alastor here. The meeting is adjourned."

The scraping of chairs and sudden murmur broke into the quiet calmness of the room.

"You'll be told about the following meeting's date and location briefly!" and turning to the Black brothers, he says: "I suppose that you'll have to tidy up a little bit, but I'll come by in two days and finish with the last protective devices. I think a Fidelius Charm is in order."

Both brothers nod slowly; a rebellious fire shining in Sirius' eyes at receiving orders that he clearly does not like.

The assembled are filling out quickly softly chatting amongst them, and heading out of the door. Black speaks quietly with Remus Lupin, who looks rather worried and fairly inquisitive while listening to his friend. They seem to solve their disagreement for Lupin throws his hands up in exasperation and Regulus can hear a resigned _have it your way!_, before the man abandons the room in a hurry.

Dumbledore himself leaves after a little while.

The Black brothers are the last to leave the room. They stand there alone for a moment. The silence is so heavy you could pierce it with a knife. Nonetheless it is not entirely uncomfortable, appreciative and evaluating sure, but not antagonising. Finally Sirius rights himself and abandons his perch by the fluffy armchair's back and heads to the door closely followed by the other.

Almost instantly, with a matching long-legged gait, they easily fall in stride. Shoulders bumped as they walked side by side.

When Regulus turns his eyes to look up at his brother, he is met with a fathomless enigmatic and indecipherable stare. He forces himself to suppress a shudder. He cannot not decide yet if he is to be relieved by the apparent response to his sudden reappearance or if he should be worried about the lack of thereof.

::::::::::::::

They apparate in a small dingy alley near Regulus' pension in Liverpool. He stumbles just after popping out of thin air and loudly clashes against a huge pile of garbage of all kinds that mounts by the backdoor of a local pub. He dignifiedly tries to compose himself and turns around to go on his way without bothering to check if he is being followed.

When he stops by a light and stops to look over his shoulder he has to catch himself. For a moment he thinks himself completely alone again, and looks wildly around. Then he looks downwards and catches sight of the prodigiously large black dog, with unkempt fur by his side. The beast returns his stare, his gaze glittering with intelligence; giving a good impression of indifference and boredom.

He makes a sharp intake of breath and has to shake his head. But he doesn't question it when the dog follows him inside the pension; and is extremely thankful when the distracted badly-paid receptionist doesn't notice the big animal slipping inside under the cover of the front desk.

"Quite impressive." he says as, just closing the door, a soft plop sounds in the air behind him. Sirius does a dismissive gesture with his hand and watches him pull together again all of his meagre belongings into the frayed duffle bag.

"So… it healed after all." Sirius does a great job of sounding as if he couldn't care less. The younger brother raises an eyebrow but lets out a dark chuckle.

"It took two years for it to heal completely, Sirius." his countenance is grave.

Sirius stares at him for a bit longer, and after he is finished hurries to check that there is no evidence left from their brief time there. Regulus leaves the bill over the bed and hopes the cleaning lady won't steal it. Then, both disapparate, yet again.


	5. Chapter 4: Grim, Grim Old Place

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Four – Grim, Grim Old Place**

Grimmauld Place is as depressing a place now as it had been before. Its old-looking run down houses are no longer what they used to. The tall looming buildings have lost all their stately splendour. The bushes by the front doors look unkempt, and the place is generally abandoned.

The people, the obnoxiously loud techno music, the new bus… are the only apparent changes to the lay-down of the place, which remains frighteningly familiar.

The door groans loudly after being opened for the first time in ten years. The house is in silence. The marble floors of the hallway are covered in a thick layer of dust. The place is humid, the air rancid after so many years closed; and the paper is peeling away from the walls. The light wind outside makes the windows creak and groan. The night is clear and bright but moonlight fails to enter the house's windows.

The two tall figures enter the house, silent in their movements as if they walked with padded feet. They pass by slowly but without emitting any sound, like ghosts they wander inside steering away from the familiar obstacles scattered around. The door closes behind them again, emitting a loud complaint of rusty metal hinges.

Someone draws a wand and a beam of light illuminates the deserted creepy surroundings. The dramatic decorations only escalate in their tacky monstrosity. The place is in very bad condition. It is plain even at first glance that it will take ages to restore the place to its former splendour. The old chandeliers that once bore testimony to the respectability and opulence of its owners are now not only old and dusty, but they have cobwebs and grime all over them. In the distance one can even hear the faint scratching sounds of rodents' feet over on the higher floors.

Regulus advances cautiously at first, desolated by the state of the once familiar space. He subconsciously drags his feet and looks warily around. He takes in a lungful of air. It somehow tastes rotten and dead. He goes to take another step forward only to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Watch for the troll leg." despite being said in only a whisper, it sounds rather like an order. This causes Regulus to stop on his tracks and frown irritated.

"I think I can still remember the layout of the decoration." he answers curtly. "How could I forget such a charming and useful object, trinket… _thing_."

Sirius chooses not to acknowledge his brother's comment and passes him by, heading towards the main staircase by the far end of the entry hall with a confident (although totally silent) stride. Regulus does not know but from his years in Azkaban Sirius has developed the now enviable ability to walk completely in the dark. They climb up, to the guest bedrooms on the first floor.

They pass through the corridors without really seeing anything, guided by instinct and memory. The looming shadows on the walls and around the corners are ghastly in the semi-darkness the meagre light of Regulus' wand provides; the abandon, totally evident though they cannot see. And as it is only night, he cringes to think how much more pathetic the spectacle will be by daylight.

"Where are we going?" whispers the younger brother. Sirius turns around for a split second before spinning on his heels yet again and walking further away again.

"I don't know you, but I usually fancy sleeping at least once every two days, and I haven't done so since last week." states flatly "You do as you please, but I'm finding a place in which to crash for tonight in this hellhole." With this, he lets his feet carry him away from Regulus' line of sight.

The younger brother sighs, and looks down at his feet; the coldness in the atmosphere starting to get at him. He has long dreamt of coming back home, but by home he meant familiarity and human beings who he didn't need to hide from. He had hoped never having to make decisions like the one that brought him into this in the first place.

Lost in his own thoughts, he reaches another bedroom on the same floor. This specific room had once been offered to unpleasant guests, for it has no windows. But he doesn't care, the bed is terribly dusty and the place in disarray. But there are no pests, and with a good shaking he gets rid of the dust on the old-smelling linens. So he simply lays there, not even bothering to undress himself, as sleep tugs on his eyelids and sweeps over him in warm waves, and lets it overcome him.

::::::::::::::

Sirius awakens when the sun hasn't really appeared yet over the horizon. He has never been a regular sleeper, and his hours still few and far in between. Azkaban has done little to improve this state of affairs. Now that his body is starting to slowly recuperate from the ravaging effects it had on his health and it finds no reason to shut off for long hours at a time, he finds that he is able to sleep less and less. He is starting to go back to the terrible lack of routine so familiar to his mind and body.

He is laying against something soft and he feels warm, so it is not so terrible as to be startled by his unfamiliar surroundings. Dust tickles his nostrils, and the rotten smell of abandonment is pungent. His eyes take little time to adjust to the dim light filtering from under the door. And he remembers: he's at his parents' house.

He promptly stands up and glares at the old bed he was sleeping in. The room is pretty bare, he sees as he conjures a light between the forefingers of his thumb and index finger. He usually avoids displaying any kind of wandless magic around other wizards because it tands to make people nervous and the last thing he needs is a larger reputation for insanity. But as long as he is alone he lets his magic spark to life as often as possible, even without a wand. This way the incessant itching sensation of magic crawling under his skin lessens to bearable levels. He sighs. Of course he didn't bother to ascend to the topmost landing just to crash on his own bed… weird that after so many years he still thinks of it as his bed. Of course, knowing Walburga Black, he might as well not have one anymore. This must be the second guestroom by the décor.

He furiously scratches at his neck as he tries to assemble his thoughts in some kind of order; he winces and when retrieves his hand he can see there is a trickle of blood under his nails. He looks at them. They're still of a disgusting brownish colour he hasn't had time to deal with in the last week he's been with Remus. No matter how many times he washes he still exudes an odour that makes him want to vomit.

He pulls the door open and heads straight to the bathroom by the end of the corridor. He tears that door open too and looks inside. Dust has settled heavily in here too. And when he tries to get the tap running in the sink the old rusty metal won't budge.

He sighs and gives a couple more of experimental tugs before desisting. This needs fixing, he decides, and so does the whole damn house, he makes and educated guess. And he needs a wand for this. He comes out to the hallway again and through another half-open door can hear the faint breaths of Regulus, still asleep. He climbs another two flights of stairs and into the Master Bedroom.

The place is rancid, still smells of illness, and this is precisely the reason why it is a good idea to search here. He quickly fumbles trough the drawers by the nightstands, and quickly comes across an old wand. It is dark brown wood, walnut, thirteen inches and a half, dragon heart string. It looks like a common wand; still it feels terribly wrong in his hand. Its balance is totally wrong and he can already feel the inherent reticence and rigidity of it. Nonetheless, it'll have to do for now.

Back into the bathroom in the first floor he looks at the taps again with critical eye. He's seen worse. But all that rust and disuse cannot be indulged for long or it will become an even greater problem. He proceeds to rectify the situation with a few spells. His spells are less effective than he is used to, but that is to be expected with a wand that isn't his. They lack force, and as he is used to more proficient results. It is a bit frustrating. But he manages well enough. He finishes with little incident except when his mother's wand backfires in a impressive show of pyrotechnics, catching fire to the sleeve the old brown and patched tunic he's wearing and that used to belong to Remus.

He has clear water running again soon enough, and the plumbing stops groaning after a while. The grey marble of the sink is left sparkling with a couple of charms he learnt back when he lived alone after leaving the Potter household. And the overall impression is one of antique lodgings, but not as dirty anymore. He can do little about the peeling paint on the walls, because they will need painting again.

When he's finished he shucks his clothes off and steps into the old bathtub standing on lion claws. He still feels dirty, no matter how many times he abused his friend's hospitality this last week and rubbed his skin raw under the stream of hot water in the shower.

He takes his time, conscious that for maybe the first time in a long while, he is in no rush to be anywhere. He lets the water fall over him and trail down his skin. He uses an old soap bar he found in one of the cupboards to almost rub his skin off in an attempt to get rid of the feeling of all that grime stuck to his body. He knows it is irrational to act as if by erasing all the physical ugliness Azkaban left on him, he could feel whole. If he closes his eyes he can see that first time when the water trickled brown down the drain. Every time he washes he feels as if his skin is left a shade lighter than before, but not yet, its natural ghostly white.

When he's finished he jumps right out and looks himself at the mirror. He always hates what he sees, but he can't seem to help himself.

He's changed, that much is obvious. Either from the twenty-something youngster who got his bones landed in Azkaban or the half-crazed soon-to-be murderer that crawled out of that hole twelve years later. He won't start pointing the differences with the former, since it is obvious that he has lost a whole deal more than just baby-fat and the flattering smoothness of youth. But he can also see differences from the latter, so horrible by the time he landed a year ago in Trinidad y Tobago. The skeletal limbs have gotten some meat on them now, which had been previously gone from years of disuse in a cell. It's not the bulky-kind of muscle, but the sleek slippery resistant kind of muscle from long-distance runner. He's been _running_ for two years. Running from his ghosts and from the entire world. He's got sinewy arms and legs, not an ounce of fat in his body.

His face is still sunken, and his eyes look tired. He applies himself to getting rid of the yellowish tint that his teeth acquired and has only worsened by his recent diet of rats. He uses a simple charm to work into a paste, a mix of nettle and chalk that for that effect that is still lodged on the sanitary cupboard over the sink, behind the mirror. He is terribly thankful that dried nettle roots never turn bad.

He then attacks the nails on his hands and feet. Sirius' hands are against all odds, not rough. They are cold most of the time, and have a few scars on the back, his nails are terribly long and they are bony. But they don't look rough. Being in Azkaban, although completely unhygienic, is by no means hard work. Walking around mostly as a dog has thoroughly preserved their aristocratic smoothness, the natural feet padding of this paws have protected them. As he carefully applies a charm to them (carefully because he is a bit weary of this wand) he realizes how ironical is that he still remember how to make a perfect manicure with a single spell (and a wand, the wand is most necessary) but still has difficulty cooking. That would have been useful to know in the last years. His hands, with long fingers and smooth, soft palms are those of an idle brat.

His hair is a mess he is in no mood to deal with. So with deft fingers he braids it at the back of his neck so it won't all come over his face and leaves it like that. At least it is clean. He dresses himself with his previous clothing, for he has no other, after casting a quick cleaning spell on them and dons on Remus' tunic despite the burnt sleeve because this house is freezing cold.

He sighs. He hates the place and isn't sure he likes the company. He still has to make up his mind about all this business with his brother. But doing something he feels necessary makes him feel better… is as if he was conjuring away his animadversion towards the house. He will not let this big old house get to him. Starting to feel, and look, human again is as good a place to begin as any.

::::::::::::::

That morning Regulus awakes to the sound of running water and the metallic screeching sound of old plumbing being put to use. He groans to himself and buries his head on the pillow, and immediately comes off coughing his lungs out from the big mouthful of dust he has just inhaled. He shakes himself awake. He strains to see in the dim light, only source coming from the semi-opened door to the hallway.

He looks at his wristwatch, he can't trust the one on his nightstand to work properly after ten years, and his eyes go wide: it is six in the morning! And he is back in Grimmauld Place. He lets his head fall heavily back on the pillow. _What the hell is doing Sirius up at this hour?_

It is insane. Not that Sirius has ever been sane when it comes to civilized hours to wake people up. He just used to be a bit more considerate about the other people living with him. He turns around and places the pillow over his head trying to muffle out the sounds. When after a while the water stops he falls back to sleep.

He is awoken again by the painful cramps of hunger in his stomach and the insistent burning of his left arm complaining because he's fallen asleep on it.

This time he drags himself out of bed without bothering to change at all and walks to the kitchen. As he comes down the stairs he rises thick clouds of dust all around him, and he can see them glittering in the air, highlighted by the yellowish tint of early morning sunrays. He remembers then that there is no elf left in Grimmauld Place nº12 and that whatever he eats he'll have to fix for himself.

Sirius is in the kitchen, crouched by one of the cupboards and surrounded by old pots and pans. He has already scrubbed the counters surfaces sparkling clean and has already dived into the cupboards.

The room is a complete mess; everything that once had been inside the cupboards is thrown on the floor, with no order whatsoever. There is a little pile of soot under the ventilation conduct, from which the grate has been pulled out to help clean and allow the dark basement room its much-needed ventilation.

Suddenly his brother's dark-haired head appears back from inside a cupboard looking rather annoyed; wand in hand.

"This is full of useless junk!" he exclaims irritated. He glares at him as if it was somehow his fault. "It's disgustingly filthy! What exactly has that thrice damned house elf been doing all these years?" asks in exasperation. Regulus shakes his head ruefully.

"He's been doing nothing."

"That much is obvious, genius." he grounds out.

"I mean that he's been doing nothing because he's dead." Sirius turns to his brother, with a look on his face that tells clearly that were that true it would make him the happiest man on earth.

Regulus nods lightly in confirmation to the unspoken question and sighs. In Sirius' eyes appears a sickly cheerful glint at the news of the welcome disappearance Kreacher's most hated presence in this house. The younger man changes the subject to more urgent matters:

"Have you eaten breakfast already?" he asks softly. Sirius looks at him and snorts.

"Unless you are able to find something here besides those couple pieces of stale mouldy bread I've already burned… I'm afraid were not having any breakfast for now."

"What? And how are we going to eat?" Regulus protests and he looks around helplessly. His stomach, of course agrees with him and rumbles loudly.

"Sorry… but you are a corpse and I'm a fugitive mass-murderer… we aren't eating anytime soon. At least not until someone else arrives." He throws something that rather looks like an old pan over his shoulder. It lands with a clang on the stone floor. "Meanwhile, we must make this old hole liveable. This is as good a place to start as any.

"I'm not used to being hungry." Regulus complains.

"Well, you're not going to die." is his acrid response. "We'd better get our troubles out of our heads by doing something."

"We?" he asks suspiciously.

"_We_. You have not earned the right to be excluded." And he throws at him an old kitchen utensil over his shoulder, probably aimed at his head, while Regulus barely manages to dodge it.

He looks at his brother. He is wearing just the same he was yesterday, but it doesn't look like it. He looks… better, cleaner, more human. He almost recognizes his brother behind those sunken eyes. Comparatively speaking, he, with his clothes in disarray and in compelling need of a shower looks far more unkempt. When Sirius shows him his teeth in a not very discreet show of dominance (and does he realize that he does it and that he's not in fact, a dog) they are almost blindingly white. It is shocking at first.

"Better start by the bedrooms, we're going to need them soon." Sirius barks over his shoulder. "You know how to do cleaning spell, don't you?"

The younger man doesn't even bother to answer and heads back towards the stairs, valiantly trying to ignore his hunger pangs. He hasn't eaten in twenty-four hours. Then he hears his name bellowed when he's already climbing the stairs from the basement.

"What?" he snaps. Sirius smiles with false sweetness.

"Mind telling me if you find a wand somewhere up there?" he asks mildly. "Mother's one is a bit temperamental and backfired rather spectacularly." He says. Regulus spies the singed sleeve from where he is, rolls his eyes and heads back up again.

"Sure thing, Sirius." mutters irritated under his breath.

::::::::::::::

The Quest to bring Grimmauld Place nº12 to an adequate state of cleanliness begins immediately. The house that had once been the splendorous household of the almighty Blacks, now is little less than the crumbling remains of its Golden age, with all the decorations that once brought grandeur to its halls are now creepy appliqués.

Two days after their arrival Dumbledore drops by. He succinctly explains to the brothers how they are going to proceed. The Fidelius Charm is cast quickly and without ceremony. Later on they discuss the gradual arrival of some Order members, mainly Lupin and the Weasley's in the near future.

That same afternoon Remus Lupin moves in, supposedly to help bring the house into shape. The werewolf is spared from paying rent this way; which he seems welcome because his sources of income are nonexistent. He has in fact lodged in worst places, as difficult as it is to believe, and seems rather relieved to have something as simple as a bed and a roof over his head.

One of the best features of his arrival is the steady income of food. He has officially taken charge of keeping food stowed down in the kitchens. That leads him to travel to the local mini-store at least two times a week. He buys as much food as he can carry; although most of times they keep buying pizza because the culinary skills of three solitary bachelors leave much to be desired.

It must be around the eight July by the time Lupin brings back a pizza with him. They are engaged in a fierce battle with a vomiting toilet in the second floor, and neither of them is willing to get very close to the cooking utensils.

It is a well-known fact that neither of the Black brothers can cook to save their lives. Regulus in fact, avoids it at all costs, and they really haven't had the chance to test how terrible he is at it. Sirius on the other hand is the only person in the world capable of burning coffee.

At least that is what Lupin says. To which always follows an annoyed huff. "I burnt the machine with the plug-thing, not the coffee." Sirius usually shoots back. But the fact is that he does make a terrible coffee, so bitter it might burn a hole trough your tongue. And as Lupin learnt already from the brief time they shared an apartment back in the early 1980's, it is better to keep him away from any kind of activity that might lead to an edible product.

Truth is that Lupin's cooking isn't something to get all excited about, mostly pasta and steaks he tends to leave raw. But nobody complains. They just pray for him to bring in something a little different.

"Hello?" calls the brown-turning-grey-haired man says the after dropping the box in the kitchen and popping his head up to the first landing. He on principle avoids rising his voice, because some kind of gut instinct about this eerie place compels him to pass as silently as possible.

"Sirius! I've got food!" he says, and then heads back towards the kitchen. And sure enough, that simple statement has some sort of magnet effect, for both brothers pop into the old kitchen soon after.

Sirius smiled and makes a show of inhaling the delicious smell food coming off; with a tongue-in-the-cheek smirk, ready to praise the virtues of take-out.

"Pizza!" exclaims Regulus. He stretches his arm out and grabs a piece of the pizza, which he just inhales in no time. If his enthusiasm is out of character for him, Lupin and Sirius can keep just looking at him while he eats it all. He's got no problem with it, none at all.

::::::::::::::

In what must been their first or second day into their second week at Grimmauld Place, and the old house has decided to uncover yet another one of its horrors.

The cleaning is progressing slowly so far. It mostly consists of Sirius stripping the rooms bare in order to do a thorough cleansing and trying to get rid of as many dynastical mementoes as possible; while his brother tries to assuage his revolutionary tendencies and clean and or repair whatever is the old relic at the moment.

Remus on the other side goes where he is told and sets himself intently to the task. He ignores the bickering and the heated looks as much as he can. That is the reason that he is climbing down the stairs headed towards the kitchen with an armload of various objects stuffed into a large box Sirius conjured while cleaning one of the guestrooms. It is full of moth-eaten blankets, old disgusting cosmetic boxes and a couple of old blackened chandeliers with their candles still, wax darkened by dust dripping down their numerous hands.

It is then that a step cracks under his weight and one of the marble plates comes loose under his feet. With a yelp he falls forward, banging his shoulder and his knees, falling all the way down the stairs. The box flies trough the air as his arms reach up to cover his head.

He is already sore and bruised because the full moon was yesterday, and the bump of one of those heavy chandeliers on his right temple burns like the breath of a dragon. But he barely has time to acknowledge his various pains, or to assess the scattering that now surrounds him at the bottom of the stairs.

An ear-splitting shriek pierces the quiet atmosphere. He looks frantically around searching for whoever is emitting such a terribly atrocious sound. The moth-eaten deep-blue stately velvet curtains he has passed so many times have flown apart. But there is no door behind them, as he may have assumed there was. For a split second, Remus thinks he is looking through a window of sorts. An old woman in mourning and a black cap is screaming and screaming as though she were being tortured. The pale yellowing skin on her face is stretched taut over sharp bones and high cheekbones. Strands of greying hair escape the coif, and her bony hands are wringed furiously as she keeps screaming profanation. Her dark eyes are rolled backwards. Then he realises he is sprawled before the most realistically unpleasant portrait he has ever seen.

The other portraits awake as well and begin to yell too, so the house that only moments before was silent as a tomb is filled by the sound of screamed profanities. He is actually tempted to hide his head and cover his ears.

Immediately two heavy sets of running footsteps come speeding down the main staircase as if the devil itself were on their heels, and both the Black brothers charge on. Sirius expertly steps over his friend and the mess by him, and stands by the middle of the entry hall. Regulus stands petrified by the bottom of the stairs, a couple steps away from where Lupin has landed.

Sirius looks pointedly to the portraits on the walls, face even more pale than usual, stance rigid, jaw set and anger blazing furiously in his mercurial eyes.

"Silence!" he roars.

The portraits mostly obey, leaning out to observe the intruder who dares order them around, and start again whispering. The life-portrait woman's eyes widen dramatically, equally as irate as Sirius' are.

"You filthy blood traitor! Scum! I'm ashamed to call you my son! Better said! You are no son of mine! Shame of my flesh! Abomination to your parents… Shame to your house!..." her pitch keeps going higher and higher; and it seems to engage the other portraits in another screaming bout.

Sirius takes a hold of the heavy curtains by the frame and starts pulling them over.

"You are not worthy of the name Black! Mudblood lover! Muggle lover! Disgrace! You are the disgrace of this household!"

But as the curtains that are supposed to cover the portrait aren't budging as he pulls from them, trying to close them as he is being insulted by the portrait; he snaps:

"Shut up!" his voice is venomous with hatred and spite. He pulls his borrowed wand out of his pocket and starts stunning the rest of the portraits into silence, cautious not to do so with the screaming wraith because there is a malevolent aura that surrounds it, and it has been likely protected.

His brother, who was covering his ears and has lost what little colour he had left, seems to come to his senses and runs to the other side in a supreme effort to gain the battle against the resisting curtains.

"Shame of this house!..." the wail keeps going louder and louder.

"I said shut up!" and with one last pull the curtain closes, and the shrieks cease, leaving the house eerily silent.

Both brothers look relieved. Sirius helps Remus up, while Regulus picks up all the trinkets that have fallen, while again re-checking that Sirius hasn't tried to get rid of anything too valuable. Then, Sirius' face, now turned into a blank mask, lifts a long thin finger and pointing at both, his brother and his friend, says:

"If anyone and I mean _anyone_, wakes her up again… I'm going to drastically remove certain parts of his body that I assure he _will_ miss." and without further ado he stomps back up the stairs.

Remus looks shell-shocked, his ears still ringing from all the screaming. His more than sensitive werewolf hearing has his head feeling even sorer than it had with the chandelier smack from the fall. Regulus instead keeps staring at the ratty curtains as if paralyzed, arms limp by his sides.

The brown-haired man grabs the things that have fallen around and heads towards the kitchen, on his way he pauses for a moment in front of the younger man. After a moment he seems to come to his senses and starts slowly following him.

None of them talks again of Wallburga's Black portrait, there is no need to. Its presence becomes soon a looming menacing presence, a constant reminder of the houses own mind, and of its previous owners. But it does come to make life at Grimmauld Place, the very incarnation of Hell on Earth.

::::::::::::::

That afternoon catches the two brothers alone again. Regulus enters the room his brother is currently cleaning his way through. He leans against the door frame and watches his brother attentively, as he strips the bed and casts a long succession of cleaning charms over the blankets and coverlets. The sheets he drops in a greyish soft-blue heap on the floor. He changes the linen (not manually, of course). Yesterday, they found the whole house bed clothing in a huge linen cupboard hidden in the second floor. Sirius made sure to tell Regulus that the consequences of slacking off regarding its urgent laundering would be dear. That's why today Sirius is so intent on changing _all_ the bed's linen in one fell swoop.

The fact is that the bed looks much the same when it's over, with its hospital corners neatly made. The same deep-blue embroidered velvet coverlet, the same solemn navy hangings attached to the dark-ebony bedposts and the same soft-blue sheets with the family crest elegantly embroidered; uniformed remainders of the past grandeur of the house.

Sirius' clothes are decent, even if worn and very muggle. Although subtle, he can already begin to see the effects of regular meals, because the darkness under his eyes and the unhealthy skin tone are starting to fade.

His hair though… is definitely a mess. He wears it long, too long as it hangs almost to his elbows. It is completely tangled, the huge knots visible even from where he is. He has taken to braid it backwards so it won't fall on his face. Truth is, it doesn't make much sense why Sirius has immediately done away with every other remain of his stage as an in-mate in Azkaban and has nonetheless done nothing about his hair.

Sirius has never been careless about his appearance, when he can help it. And yet, the mop of hair he wears currently makes him look as if he truly was a criminal.

Regulus shakes his head fondly for a moment, he can afford it after all as Sirius has his back turned to him and can't see. He is often taken aback by sudden rushes of affection towards the misanthropic jerk he has for a brother, just like right now. He does the best he can not to give himself up. It has always been his Achilles heel, his brother. He walks up to him, and stands just behind that lithe frame that is tall even for himself, coughing softly to get his attention.

Sirius turns his head to one side, looking through the corner of his eye, to find Regulus standing there. He raises an eyebrow silently in an inquisitive way. He may not be aware of it, but that simple gesture, so typical of him, which Regulus himself does often, although not as assiduously as him, makes him resemble their late father in an uncanny manner.

His brother simply returns his gaze unwavering. Pale grey meets pale grey across the scant one-meter distance that separates them. These are quite unfathomable eyes for those who do not know their bearers. But to those who were born looking into eyes of this greyish nature, the slow examination of intentions, of truths and of lies in this battle of wills, is familiar territory. There has to be no reason for this kind of probing to start, it just does.

Regulus is extremely glad that he is yet again regaining his feet in this terrain. Eye-to-eye contact has always unnerved him. But more, and more, he finds that he has no need to avert his gaze anymore. It used to be familiar terrain, but Sirius' eyes have aged beyond telling, pain and suffering are etched there forever, and newfound wisdom, and intelligence… distrust, and that spark of volatile temper. Many lesser men would cower under the piercing flaming-cold stare he receives. But he just stands there and takes it.

He lets his gaze trail to the black mane of hair that had captured his attention. He lifts his hand and takes a lock between his fingers.

"What are you doing?" Sirius asks with thick mistrust in his voice. It is sad that he sometimes does resemble a beaten up dog, backing off the hand that aims to pet him on the head.

"Come along" he says placing a hand on his brother's arm, and he feels him tense, imperceptibly flinching under his touch. "you don't want to scare the potential guests."

Sirius follows him warily towards the nearby bathroom. He watches like a hawk as he conjures a pair of scissors and a comb. Regulus pushes him around with a hand on the small of his back until he is just in front of the mirror. Regulus peeks around his shoulder and conjures a stool:

"Sit, I can't very well reach around with you standing." he says.

Sirius doesn't say anything as he watches him on the mirror, but lets him do. They make a strange contrast. Sirius, who always wore his hair short, has now so much hair that sometimes he could make it so you wouldn't see his face. Regulus wore it long and tied back since he reached sixteen; yet when living amongst muggles he wore it pretty short and now as it is starting to grow too long falls in his eyes. He won't do anything about it though, because he intends to let it grow back.

Regulus sets himself to untangling every single knot, one by one. He does it very softly, intent in the work at hand. He starts upwards and goes down; making those knots he can't eliminate retreat downwards so he won't have to leave Sirius bald.

"I guess you were too embarrassed to ask Lupin to do it." Regulus comments softly, while he's at it. There is no mocking there, only veiled affection. "Wouldn't fit with your reputation of independence, uh?"

Sirius somehow manages to trudge on his toes. "You know that doing _that_ while I have your hair in my hands is not the wisest thing to do, don't you?" Sirius ignores him, as expected and they go back to their comfortable silence. The only sounds that can be heard are their soft breaths.

When he is satisfied with his work, he grabs a pair of scissors and starts cutting.

"I hope you know what you are doing." warns Sirius as soon as he sees what's going on.

Sirius doesn't consider himself to be superstitious, but when it comes to his hair… two last times he dare cut it things went off to worse. And he looks and Regulus warily. He is afraid of what he'll see was he to cut it short after so many years. This way he can try and convince himself that the hair does for most of the haunted look from an Azkaban ex-inmate.

"Don't fret, I not going for anything too risqué." says quietly the younger. "Just making you look a bit less like a banshee."

Sirius rolls his eyes, but doesn't talk again. The current task proves to be far less difficult than the previous one. Regulus cuts swiftly through the sable locks of straight hair. As he cuts it comes loose acquiring again the smooth inky silkiness of yore. He leaves it long, he is no hairdresser; and it hangs still pasts his shoulders. But once he is done, and he pulls it back with a plain black silk ribbon at the back of his neck it hangs neatly between his shoulder blades.

"There, now you look like a human being again." says the youngest as he observes his handiwork.

Sirius rises and looks at himself in the mirror, it is alright. He gets a good look at his face and for a first in a long time, his own face looks familiar. The long proud straight nose seems to have regained a higher profile. His eyes seem somewhat less sunken and weary. The jaw he has already magically shaved (not that he ever had much of facial hair worth mentioning) looks again straight and noble. Sharp features and high cheekbones give him a hard look that now leaves no room for scruffy. If he edges it just so he can even swear he sees his father, in fact, the resemblance is more striking every day.

He throws a look at his brother. There is no need for such words as '_thank you_'. It a mechanism that allows them to show insignificant amounts of caring while maintaining their uncertain _status quo_, because there is no-on to bear witness or acknowledge it. Neither of them has them on their system, it is not how they work. Sirius would never say it, and Regulus would never accept it as an honest pronouncement.

::::::::::::::

In the following week, they manage to clean through most of the guestrooms, especially the ones in the first and second landing. The kitchen has already become the operations centre; and two bathrooms have already been disinfected enough to have Sirius' approval.

Sirius raids his father's closet after he finds himself with nothing to wear. One can only wash clothes magically so many times before they start to look dirty anyway, so in the end he was forced to get rid of his muggle attire. He searches for clothing that isn't coming apart by the seams. Regulus of course follows suit and searches trough his own thoroughly disappointed to realize he shall have to wear clothes made for a seventeen-year-old wizard, although terribly glad to realize his measurements haven't changed much. Talk about aging gracefully.

Sirius settles for the plain robes, sometimes with embroidered cuffs. They are all good cloth, and the anti-moth spells have kept the clothes in the wardrobe fairly new. They are clothes sometimes too classy for the use they're being put to: silks, fine linens and cashmere wool. But they hang as majestically from Sirius' form as they did from his father's. He has been forced to elongate the sleeves at least an inch, but the result is nice anyway, and the classical cut of the clothes makes him look almost respectable. The colours are dark and sombre, but Sirius is not choosy, and it suits his tastes fine anyway. Perhaps saddest is that his father was terminally ill and underweight when he wore them, which is a sad testimony to Sirius' own state if there was any. Of course, no one dares mention that he looks even more menacing than he did before when he wears them, or that they accentuate the steely edge of his personality. No, no one dares. But he does look more respectable, different in a good way, and by the time the rest of the order begins to arrive the long process that will overcome them has already started.


	6. Chapter 5: The Order Headquarters

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Five – The Order Headquarters**

A torrential downpour is falling over London, a thing not unheard of an English summer. It isn't very cold, quite the opposite in truth. In fact the previous days have been sweltering hot, the heat wave over the country leaving everybody sweating and tired, when the only thing you could possibly think of doing is curling into a shadowy corner and sleep.

Grimmauld Square is a small and shabby square of unkempt grass, surrounded by tall, dilapidated houses. It is pretty deserted by this time in the afternoon. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses are not welcoming; some of them have broken windows. What must have been once a well-standing street has clearly come down with time, and most of the tall houses have several mailboxes. Glimmering dully in the light from the streetlamps, paint is peeling from many of the doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.

Seven figures rush under the rain, two of them are adults and five are children, all of them red-headed with the only exception of a girl with bushy brown hair. They finally come to a halt, between two front doors. The muggle residents in the vicinity have long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

But from the shadows of the occult Grimmauld Place nº 12 a pair of grey eyes are watching from the landing in the second floor, attentively surveying the mismatched clothing and the poor attempts at secrecy.

"I think this is it." says the oldest man to the rest. He is a tall thin balding man, with bright red hair and glasses. Arthur Weasley, the Weasley patriarch is now pointing to a place in between both houses. His wife, a rather short woman with deep auburn hair, looks at him queerly.

"Are you sure honey?" she peeps up. Mr Weasley looks down at her.

"Yes Molly, Dumbledore instructed for us to go to…" he rambles as he retrieves a piece of paper from his pocket and he reads out loud. "…_Grimmauld Place nº 12_."

"But there's no number 12!" says Arthur's youngest son, Ron; as he looks wildly around.

"Very clever, so…" says Fred, Ron's brother.

"…now you can…" George continues his twin's sentence.

"…state the obvious." finishes Fred. Ron throws a glare on their direction.

"Stop quarrelling." commands with aplomb Ginny, Arthur's only daughter, despite being much smaller (and younger) than any of her brothers.

"Arthur, I think Ron's right, you must have gotten the address wrong." says Molly turning to her husband.

"The address is correct. I'm seeing it."

The six of them stare at the two houses, seeing absolutely nothing. Then Arthur shows them the paper.

"Think what the paper says!" he urges them.

After a few seconds, an enormous house emerges in front of them. It appears to shove its neighbouring houses, number eleven and number thirteen, out of the way as it appears between them. Immediately a worn set of front steps is revealed, leading to a huge, battered and solid front door. The house itself looks like an early-Victorian building and bears down upon the newcomers with unkempt grandeur.

"Come on; let's get inside before we drown." says Molly as she drags her children to the main entrance. On the door there is a silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent, with no keyholes, handles, or anything else that would indicate it to be a door, as are the doors that open only by magic. A loud, clanging bell sounds inside the house as she rings on the doorbell. They wait, but there is no response.

"Perhaps they haven't heard you." says Ginny. "Let's knock again." Mr. Weasley is about to do so when the door flies open and they find themselves face to face with Lupin.

"Professor Lupin!" exclaim the twins joyously.

"What are you doing here?" asks Ron.

"He's a member of the Order too." explains Mr. Weasley as he pushes his brood inside. "We can't talk about this out here."

The front door opens before them into a long hallway, lit with gas lamps and a large overhead chandelier. At one time it must have been a grand entryway, complete with ornate portraits on the walls, but in this time of its history it looks gloomy and cobwebby, with the tasteful wallpaper peeling off and the carpet worn thin.

"Sorry for the long wait, but the bell awoke the portraits." apologises Lupin. "Please, remain silent until we reach the kitchen. You can leave your belongings here; we will get them upstairs later." adds as he closes the multiple locks and double checks the spells by the front door behind them.

"We go to the kitchen?" asks Molly. Remus nods.

"Yes, I'll go fetch Sirius." Molly looks rather twitchy, and the grim surroundings sure don't help make her feel better.

"Where…?" asks the short woman. Lupin points to the darkest spot of the hallway visible from there.

"Straight ahead, by the end of the hallway, just beside the stairs, there's a door. Behind it a flight of stairs to the basement, down there it is the door by the end of the corridor. It's easy." says Lupin, talking in a hushed voice. "And watch out for that troll leg." He warns the twins as they start to walk towards the end of the hall.

"Which troll leg?" asks Ron stopping in his tracks.

"The one that you're about to kick." smiles Lupin gently. Ron to jumps backwards awkwardly trying to keep his balance. Remus shakes his head, but keeps smiling indulgently and leaves in search of his friend.

Effectively, a door at the far end of the entry hall and a set of narrow stone stairs leads to the basement, and the house's kitchen. The Weasleys make their way there as quietly as they can. It is not as easy as Lupin made it sound. The house is dark and full of stairs and groaning doors, and although there are gas lamps all along the corridor, they don't know how to light them.

Though less ornate than the ground level, the kitchen is still large. It is a cavernous room with a large fireplace at the far end. Iron pots and pans, now recently polished, hang from the ceiling above, and a long wooden table sits in the centre of the room, large enough to fit a couple dozen people around it if necessary.

They find a man sitting on one of the chairs, with his feet on the table, crossed at the ankles staring into space, as dust collects on the vast surfaces of the counters. The Weasley children look at him with curiosity. He looks a lot like Sirius, but with less wrinkles and shorter hair.

Funny enough, he is so deep in thought that he doesn't seem to have noticed their presence. They don't have any need to break the silence though, as Remus enters the kitchen after them. After living in the house for weeks he finds his way around in the gloomy rooms with far more ease than them.

"I can't seem to find Sirius anywhere." he says, exasperation shining through his voice. Regulus snaps out of his trance-like state and looks at the werewolf with a puzzled look. "He's going to hit the roof if he finds you here arms-crossed, you know." he comments lightly.

"I really hate this cleaning-house business, and that seems the only tasks he hands out." he gives a rather whiney complaint.

In fact the man manages to give the uncanny impression of a spoiled five-year-old deprived of candy. He's got the chair balanced on its back legs, reclined against the wall, and his smartly-covered feet are propped against the table. He wears classical wizarding attire: elegant grey slacks, high-collared shirt a waist coat, and a dark robe of greenish tint.

Arthur, who hasn't got much trouble recognising the man in question, is about to speak up and introduce his family but really doesn't get the chance.

This time it is an upset Sirius Black who barges into the kitchen. In a few long swift strides he is by the sink and has the water running furiously. Without paying much attention to anyone he proceeds to wipe his face from the greenish powder layer of Merlin-knows-what that is currently covering it.

For those who have had the honour of meeting him before, the change is admirable even at first sight. The clothes make for a great change, and even covered in suspicious substances gives an impression of neatness. And the neat ponytail he sports has done away with the wild half-crazed look.

He removes his outer tunic, stained with whatever hit him on the face, and quickly puts the suspicious looking stain under the water stream succeeding only partially in removing it from the fabric. He, as the other Black is wearing dark classically cut clothing underneath; a leaden-coloured shirt with a deep-blue waistcoat, a slightly loosened but severe necktie, black trousers and boots. The garments he is wearing now only make his thin tall frame look even gaunter.

"Guess which portrait I'm about to hex off the wall?" he asks in an offhand manner to the concurrence, although it seems specially directed towards Regulus on the chair, who has been studiously ignoring him from the very moment he came into the room.

"As there are so very few portraits in this house…" answers quietly the younger brother, sarcasm staining his voice, while at the same time he suddenly lowers his chair on four legs with a loud _clanck_.

"Great-grandmother Hesper seems very intent on handing out her opinion about my physical fitness…" he offers, the vague singsong slightly threatening in his voice. "If she keeps it down that path I'm locking her in the cellar."

"I don't think she'd mind… after all, she did love her wine." says Regulus amused. Sirius rolls his eyes, and lets out a grunt.

"Then I'm sending her to the attic." he bites back "That way she can keep company with the bats… I've heard their company is lovely."

"Doubt it. She'd love the view." he dutifully informs, but this time he isn't being paid attention to. Instead, now that he's finished with the tunic and thrown it in a heap on top of the counter he has turned to the Weasleys.

"Good afternoon Arthur." he says as he shakes hands with the red-haired man, his voice ten times more placid now than only moments ago. He even brings his uncooperative lips to curl in the beginnings of a smile. "Same to you Molly."

Then he turns to the children contemplating amused as they sweep the great vastness of the kitchen with their young impressionable eyes.

"Hello there Ron, hello Hermione." he says with a touch of affection. Then he focuses his gaze on the remaining Weasley brats. "You must be Ginny, and you two must be Fred and George, and…" he receives the respective '_hi'_s and he seems to be think about it for a moment. "There are children missing, aren't they Arthur?"

"Oh yes!" says the man. "My older ones are out and about by themselves."

"William, wasn't your eldest?" he inquires, he vaguely remembers hearing that name two weeks ago.

"Yes, he's at Gringotts right now." he answers truthfully. Sirius can't help but feel amused that despite her open-mouthed shock, little Ginny still finds necessary to clarify '_It's Bill!_'.

"Well, I'm really sorry that you have to lodge in here… this _house_ it is unclean at best." says motioning to the room surrounding them. "Sometimes I wonder why you had to _kill_ that nuisance of a house elf."

He says, turning to his brother. Hermione splutters and she almost chokes on the same air she is breathing, once she's recovered she throws them a pointed glare. Ron shakes his head, at Hermione's SPEW nonsense, but looks at young Mr. Black uneasily anyways.

"I didn't kill him Sirius." says the younger brother straight-faced. "He was about to die anyway. It is what poison does. I just couldn't help him any." Sirius snorts. "Besides, Kreacher would have strangled me personally had I not let him do what he did. It is what house elves _do_."

Sirius pays him no mind and turns towards the newcomers with a half-apologetic look upon his face.

"There is no house-elf here at the moment. And this house is very big, very old and in a very sorry state… I'm afraid we could use a little help with that." he outright informs them. "But first things first… I seem to recall it is good manners to allow people to settle in first."

Sirius is sporting his evil little grin as he says this.

"There are three clean guest bedrooms between the first and second floors, hopefully another one will be ready later today… but my late-aunt things are being a little unwilling to leave their current lodgings." he points to the stained and soiled tunic by the sink. "We have also a couple of bathrooms that are usable… You'll have to share for the moment, but that shouldn't be a problem, I think. The rooms are fairly big."

He makes a dramatic sigh before adding:

"There is lots of space! Lots of rooms! But there is also heaps of dirt and other unmentionable pieces of junk." Remus sniggers at his friend's winded speech, but Sirius pays him no heed. "You can go and make yourself comfortable; my brother here will lead you upstairs."

He says this as he passes in front of him and Regulus has to retrieve his legs to avoid having his toes stepped upon, all the way glaring at him.

"And Reg, don't think me that stupid, you were supposed to be checking upon all that big load of useless crap you took hostage yesterday… you do or I'll throw it away as it is!"

A flustered Regulus Black shoots daggers at his brother's back as it disappears through the doorframe.

"Mind reminding me why the terrible need to shorten my name? It's not that long!" turning to the Weasley's he adds loud enough so that everyone in the kitchen can hear him. "My name is _Regulus_."

Then, Regulus rises from his seat making a show of being lazy and motions the red-head family to follow him. Revealing not only that he is in better condition than his brother but that he is shorter too.

::::::::::::::

Between Molly, Arthur and the younger of the Blacks, they carry the trunks upstairs. That is after Hermione has had to coax Crookshanks to stop rubbing himself against Sirius' brother's ankles, as apparently he has quickly transferred his affections from one sibling to another without much problem.

At the end of the entrance hall, facing the entrance door, a grand staircase leads to the upper floors of the house. The wall on the stair is decorated with a row of shrunken house-elf heads, mounted on the wall on plaques that make them shudder noticeably. As they ascend though, Ron, with his usual lack of tact, can't help himself anymore:

"I didn't know Sirius had a brother." Ron says out loud.

"Is it so hard to believe?" Regulus asks rising both his eyebrows in an open show of amusement. "Oh, don't bother, you'll find he doesn't like to talk about anything too personal at all."

The whole house is gloomy and has lofty ceilings. The elegant dark doors, all have doorknobs in the shape of contorted serpents. In certain places, the air still smells rancid, and the windows are too dirty to let the few sunlight rays present today seep in, so the shadows inside the house lengthen spectrally.

It is precisely half past five in the evening, though it is hard to tell because of the lousy weather. And it is deserted, though the Order of the Phoenix has already staked its claim on number twelve, Grimmauld Place as their official and unplottable base of operations. Its members have yet to establish themselves as a physical force within the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; the Weasleys being the first wave of settlers coming to relieve the oppressive silence of its rooms.

Some of the clean guestrooms are at a far corner of the first floor. Regulus points the Weasleys to them, while indicating the ones clean in the upper floor and the inconvenience of opening any doors that haven't been expressly labelled safe.

"You can organize yourselves in any way it pleases you." says as he stands on the door frame, watching them begin unpacking their stuff. "most of them have a couple of beds down this floor… children used to lodge in here sometime ago…"

"And where do you sleep…?" asked Mr Weasley. "We would hate to accidentally…"

"There." he says pointing to the door by the end of the corridor. "Lupin and me sleep in the same room. We definitely need to clean some more rooms…" he comments ruefully. "Thank God, Sirius barely sleeps… and when he does it's at odd hours… otherwise we'd be quite cramped." He snorts and considers it. "In fact, if you ever want to find him, do not come here looking for him… he barely steps foot in there."

The two girls take for their own the second guestroom, which in Regulus' mind has always been called the burgundy room for its unusual colour. The rest of the family will lodge upstairs, in the room Sirius is currently working at.

"Do you think it would be very rude of me if I cooked something for dinner, Mr Black?" asks Molly a while later. Regulus starts at the way she addresses him, but manages to hide it well. No one except for his professors from Hogwarts has ever called him that. When someone does he has the feeling they're addressing his father.

"This could get very confusing…" he mutters. He doesn't tell her to call him anything else though, because he's not all that sure he does like this short fat auburn woman with the easy smile and the twitchy attitude. "You are most welcomed to do so. If it has to come to us, I'm afraid we'll sooner starve than cook something edible." Mrs Weasley looks outraged and appalled, and most assuredly Regulus thinks, all her motherly instincts are going on overdrive.

"No wonder that you are so skinny!" she exclaims while looking at him, suddenly compassionate. As she leaves towards the kitchen Regulus has to contain himself form snapping at the poor unsuspecting woman that he has already got a mother and that he didn't tolerate this amount of mothering from her.

"I am not skinny." he mutters under his breath instead, but by then he is alone.

Ron and the twins, close by at the moment seem to find all this very amusing and can't help sniggering at Mr Black's vexed face.

"If Mom has decided they are thin… she's going to stuff them like pigs." comments Ron commiserating. Ginny looks at him and rolls her eyes.

"If it hasn't worked with any of us, what makes you think she'll succeed?" says as Hermione smacks him in the head for making this kind of comments in hearing range of strangers.

::::::::::::::

The Weasleys settle quickly into the routine of Grimmauld Place. It is an easy feat because there was no routine to speak of before. With Molly's home-making abilities and extra sets of young arms to help around, the Order Headquarters quickly pick up a rhythm of its own.

Molly quickly takes over the kitchen as her kingdom, striking people's knuckles every time her meals get pillaged before dinnertime or someone leaves dirty dishes strewn around. Arthur is barely around because he works long hours in the Ministry, still intent in his mission of sounding the various departments looking for potential additions to the Order.

The children, being young as they are try to get out of cleaning duty as often as possible, and Mrs Weasley, being the magnificent matron that she is quickly rounds the up every time and locks them in a room hours at a time until she is satisfied. She looks funny with a handkerchief around her head and wearing a flowery apron. But no-one would dare contradict her in any of her matters of expertise as she waves the feather duster around like a baton.

Regulus Black finds her presence a necessary annoyance he must put up with, so he makes it so he doesn't have to spend much time with her in any circumstance. He only sees her for wide breaths of time in the meals, in which he deigns to appear in honour to her more than decent cooking skills.

Sirius on the other hand… He is apparently careless, gives cutting comments in an offhanded manner, shows no respect for her self-proclaimed authority and pays no heed to most social conventions regarding behaviour if he doesn't feel like it. The master of the house is a subversive presence that makes Molly Weasley seethe.

Nothing in his attitude shows that he isn't as mad as the Ministry makes him to be. In fact, he is a little too sane when delivering jibes and giving his opinion about safety and strategy issues; and almost brilliantly and arrogantly mad when it concerns having his own way.

He is an arrogant, self-centred, sarcastic ex-prisoner of Azkaban, with gaunt looks and a sharp barbed tongue who has no qualms about telling her his opinion when he is being ordered around. Sirius has none of the fat-roundness of the good natured; but the tall austere wiry presence of a professional good old soldier. In fact this one is going to be his second full-fledged war (and hopefully the last, either for good or bad); and Molly isn't completely willing to give the younger man the deference his veteran status entitles him to.

The fact that the children seem to like him or that they pool around him to try and get information out of him doesn't make her like him any more. For if they do not see eye to eye in something is in what adolescents are prepared to hear. Sirius seems to think that one can never know enough and keeping children in the dark only complicates matters and makes them a risk to everyone including themselves. Mrs Weasley, on the other hand is convinced that as children they should not be exposed to the harshest reality of war.

Sirius is oftentimes indeed harsh, and has such brisk manners that in reality Molly doesn't now how to approach him… she doesn't hate him, that'd be too harsh. But they often butt heads, and argue about inconsequential matters just because their confrontational personalities don't allow them to give in.

Fortunately there are some things in which they are on the same page, for starters getting the house in shape once and for all. Or how terrible is that Harry is stuck at the Dursley's, or the inconvenience of letting the Weasley children wander through the house and nose around with all the dangerous dark-magic objects that pop out of unsuspected places.

One morning, at breakfast the twins are trying to engage their former professor in a conversation in which they are bragging about their pranks while Molly isn't near; and picking at Ron when she is. Ginny and Hermione are talking to Mrs Wealsey presumably about girly things.

Arthur is talking to Sirius about the many possible reasons why he did never find anything in Malfoy Manor's various raids by the Ministry, and promises to show him the workings of his father's safe room door. He is sipping on tea, as Molly banned him on coffee early on their arrival, with heartfelt approval from Lupin, who knowing his friend actually felt relieved. A caffeinated Sirius tends to be even more impatient and active than normal, and being practically on house arrest as he is…

The momentary peace is disturbed by Regulus' sudden arrival. Still standing on the threshold of the kitchen, the man sports a smirk of satisfaction. With a swift move he throws a wand in the air. It makes an almost perfect arch and lands tip-first in front of his brother's plate, leaving a slightly scorched mark on the table. Molly makes a face at the irresponsible handling of the wand.

"There you go! Now you can stop complaining."

Sirius takes it carefully, and after a swift examination: wand of birch, fourteen inches and a half, unicorn hair. It is almost identical to his own wand, now locked in the Auror Deposit from the Ministry. He _accio_-es a glass from the other end of the table. It zooms trough the air and passes close to Fred's ear to land neatly in his palm. A smirk spreads across his face.

"Superb." He says as he turns the new wand in his fingers. "Mother's wand backfired too often."

He removes the despised wand from his pocket and throws it at Regulus, who barely catches it and throws him a reproachful look.

"Do with it what it pleases you." he says dismissively. Regulus rolls his eyes, what is he supposed to do with a wand with a sour mood, after all? He goes to sit and manages to pillage a couple of recently baked cookies while Molly isn't looking.

"Where did you find it?" Sirius asks, his eyes never stopping his examining of the wand.

"In one of father's drawers, in the study while looking for ink." he tells him. "If you want, Uncle Alphard's must be somewhere amongst his belongings, in the attic."

"It's a bit short." Sirius muses, motioning to the wand. "But it will do." Remus rolls his eyes.

"It's not a short wand Sirius." he exclaims at the partiality of his friend's observations.

"Yes it is!" states Sirius. "It's an inch shorter than mine."

"The fact that you can't poke an eye out of someone with it does not make it a short wand." says Regulus nonchalantly. Remus seems amused by the truth hidden behind that barb.

"Well, considering he tends to consider anyone shorter than him short…" Remus is drastically cut by Sirius.

"All a matter a perspective. And you _are_ short, by the way." says motioning to his friend. "Regulus is short, too."

"British average height doesn't seem to think so." says Regulus with the same tone of voice.

"Normally a person tends to take himself as a reference for measuring the world." says Remus in his more reasonable patient professor voice. Regulus Black gives him an odd look.

"Which really sucks if you are Sirius." he comments annoyed.

Sirius is putting to practice the true-and-tried system by which he ignores whatever people say about him when he doesn't quite like it. He starts exercising with his new wand as Molly keeps an eye on him. He keeps transfiguring the napkins into a bunch of little grey mice. Hermione looks at him interested, and frowns when later he doesn't quite allow them to escape until Ron bumps him on the shoulder and they escape and fall all over Ginny, who screams her lungs out.

Remus rolls his eyes at his friend's antics, and throws him a glare, so Sirius undoes the spell and hides the wand when Molly looks his way, only to summon the napkins back with a wave of his hand, using both non-verbal and wand-less magic. Regulus Black snorts.

"Show-off." Lupin mutters

"Why the hell do I bother finding you a decent wand if you are going to keep doing magic without it?" exclaims Regulus in exasperation.

"Force of habit." says Sirius. Remus shakes his head.

"You know you shouldn't do that, it's dangerous." Sirius simply shrugs. "It could get out of hand. You could blow something off!"

"As if he is going to listen to you." mutters the younger brother.

Regulus exits the kitchen, leaving Sirius trying to soothe Molly's ruffled feathers, all the while aiming to avoid a whole new day of cleaning rags and dust.

::::::::::::::

Sirius leans on the banister railing and looks with displeasure to the open door to his late grandmother Irma's room. He anxiously shifts his weight. The marble railing feels cold, but it creaks under his weight, threatening to come loose. The rug under his feet wrinkles under his feet and he toes contemplatively at a tear in the faded-blue cloth.

He examines the few trinkets he has deemed worth saving from her mother's mother belongings. There is an old dusty charms handbook he rather liked as a child, a magic deck of cards with which the old white-haired woman taught him how to play mousse and a couple of photos where him and her appear alone with no-one else.

It is not true that he hates all his family; he rather liked the dowager Lady from the Norfolk branch of Black family. She was always kind, and had a mischievous streak which she shared only with him. He doesn't know if she dared be with him what she hadn't dared with any of her children, or if only she died too early to be truly disappointed in him.

Amongst all the other mementoes he contemplated a moth-eaten ball of two intertwined socks. Both encrusted with layers of dust from where they had been discarded in the recesses of the old room. A tiny puff of dust is emitted from the fabric each time Sirius nonchalantly tosses it from one hand to the other.

The mouldy fabric has a heavy weight to it, for a pair of socks that is. From the depths of his robe's inner pocket, Sirius produces his father's wand and with a flourish he points at the balled up socks. He watches as the clothing quivers in his hand for a moment before starting to change on his hands. A plain looking red-stripped top appears instead, with its snake-like cord contorting around it.

Sirius vaguely remembers hiding it in there in the hopes his mother would never find it, before his mad hurry to leave Grimmauld Place and run off to the Potters' house for the remainder of his adolescence when he was fifteen.

He distinctly remembers transfiguring the muggle toy James gave him to resemble a pair of old socks on the Hogwarts Express back home. He loved that toy, its simplicity, and the fact that a _friend_, a friend like James had given it to him despite the fact that he did apparently have everything. Transfiguring it had ensured that Sirius' pure-blood, muggle-loathing parents would never get their hands on it and he wouldn't have to stand through another row. Obviously, that had been half the fun, passing such contraband right beneath his parents haughty noses.

Finding the trinket makes him smile, amused that after the fervent quest his mother had of getting any evidence of his existence out of the house (except from his room, but he suspected that was either because they hoped he would come back or because she never guessed his password) one still could find such an essential trace of himself as a flighty teenager rotting in a corner, unnoticed.

Apparently, he haunts the house as much as the house haunts him.


	7. Chapter 6: New Blood & Old Hatred

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter six – New Blood & Old Hatred**

The piercing sound of the door bell rings through the house. Sirius curses under his breath as he drops the broken lock he was fixing for a door in the third floor. Shouting can be heard downstairs. The sound awakens his mother and her shrieking joins the wails already filling the house. On the last meeting they had failed to close the curtains and it had been hell, thankfully the woman had gone hoarse after about two hours of spewing non-stop prejudice about everything and everyone. Her shrieking namely concerned, but was certainly not limited to, the profane association between wizards and muggles, the profanation of the house and indignities about semi-humans.

"Mudbloods, blood traitors and werewolves! Contaminating the house of my forefathers! Scum! Muggle lovers! Disgrace!"

Sirius sprints down the corridor and descends two floors at breakneck speed. The portraits on the walls are a blur to his eyes. He sends stunning spells left and right, which mainly land on the screaming portraits, effectively silencing them. Some of them go awry, tearing chunks out of the corridor walls. He comes down the main staircase like a whirlwind. When he reaches Walburga Black's portrait, he stands in front of it, hands on his hips and a furious look upon him.

"Shut up old hag! You are the monster! I said shut up!" that doesn't seem to calm her, of course.

"Shame of this house! Filthy blood traitor! You! You are no son of mine!"

"Great! Because you definitely don't deserve to be my mother!" and he starts pulling the curtains over the portrait.

The rest of the inhabitants of the house watch the scene from the top of the stairs, some with curiosity, and others a bit scared. After a few-minutes struggle, he manages to close it. Remus Lupin is the first to move, heading towards the door and starting to open all the locks that door has on it.

The solid oaken door opens to reveal Mad-eye Moody with his roving eye and a dark-skinned man with broad shoulders and a golden hoop on his left ear, both racking his eyes suspiciously over the run-down place. The door closes by itself after them as they come under the scathing glare of the house's owner.

The crowd of onlookers blocks now the entry hall.

The strong man beside Moody looks tense. His expression isn't quite visible on his guarded features, and in the poor light, his dark face looks so closed that only two big white spots float in the darkness by the space his eyes should have occupied. And they narrow suspiciously.

Sirius isn't looking his best. Apart of his obvious Azkaban ex-inmate deterioration, currently on the mend, he has a wild look about him. Half of his hair has come loose in his mad dash downstairs. Long silky locks hang now over his face, and get into his eyes, schooling them from view. But his fierce irate eyes are still dilated by the raw hatred the piece of canvas evokes. His fiery stare is fulminating; and he just practically incinerates the newcomers with it. He's posed by the dreaded portrait, panting angrily, like he's about to jump on them and make mincemeat.

"What the he…!" starts Moody, but he has the good sense to shut up.

Sirius silences him with a look and points his wand at them. The black man goes to draw his wand, but Mad-Eye contains him with a hand on his arm. They watch silently as he makes the various locks and security spells close again on their own accord behind them.

"Be quiet in the hall." he says so punctuating each and every word he says. Then he points to the door over the narrow basement staircase and they head over there, but for the kids who walk upstairs again, herded by Molly.

Once in the kitchen he casually sits on a chair and leans back placing his feet on the table. Moody stands in front of the stove, with his usual grumpy face and paranoid look about him.

"What part of '_Don't use the doorbell'_ people do not quite understand, I wonder." he says glaring at Mad-eye murderously, obviously annoyed at the fact that no matter how many times he says so, his words seem to fall on deaf ears. After a brief staring contest through half-lidded eyes, Sirius snaps. "Will you stand all afternoon? Bloody hell, take a seat, it's not dangerous or anything… poor battered chair isn't going to bite your skinny rump."

He motions to Moody, who reluctantly takes a seat by the head of the table. His companion though keeps on his feet.

"So who's the new recruit you're bringing?" says Lupin giving a shake of his head towards him, who is staring, at Sirius. He offers a cup of (cold) tea to them, Moody bats his hand away and the other one politely declines.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, senior member in the Auror Division, he's supposed to be in charge of looking for Black…" he says, as if it was completely natural for him to be standing in front of his supposed target. Remus has his doubts of who would become prey or hunter if this blew up for good, but Shackebolt has Moody's trust, or so it seems. Sirius rolls his eyes.

"I could have told you that." grumbles Sirius. Remus rolls his eyes at his friend's antics, and Moody pays him no attention at all.

"This is Arthur Weasley and his wife, Molly." he introduces them to Shackebolt. Kingsley nods in their direction. "And this is Remus Lupin." Moody goes on with the introductions.

"Welsh, unemployed, dirt-poor and resident werewolf." the older man with greying sandy-brown hair introduces himself with a touch of humour in his voice. Kingsley, on the other hand, does not seem surprised at all.

"We do know each other." Shackebolt says with calm confidence and his deep slow voice vibrates through the kitchen. "We've talked quite a few times in the last couple of years."

Lupin smiles broadly at that.

"You truly must've been bored to tears with all that interrogating me," he says congenially. "and all that sitting guard at my doorstep…"

"Total waste of time." Shackebolt agrees gravely, and readily. "But we never had many other leads."

His gaze returns to Sirius who meanwhile has made his appearance look once more, quite civilised. When Shackebolt addresses him, he does not seem uncomfortable. Standing now he faces Kingsley properly for the first time. Kingsley's towering size would've been intimidating, had Sirius not been towering over him in turn.

"So you're the unlucky fellow who got landed with my case…" he comments with an amused smirk coming through. "What did you do to displease your boss so?"

"It was supposed to be a promotion." he comments wryly.

"Glad to know so many years in that Ministry hole haven't spoiled your sense of humour." Sirius turns around and goes to lean against the counter, comfortably at ease. "I assume Mad-eye here already told you about all this drama…"

"I get it you know each other?" Moody comments piqued. Sirius makes a dismissive gesture.

"Long time ago… old story. Joined aurors in the 80, and you know it Moody." he tells Moody and turns to Shackebolt. "Last time we met you were still wet around the ears. So much Moody can't even recall it, in fact…" Mad-eye growls at him. "You're right handed, useless with a wand in your other hand, but that's not uncommon. Proficient with non-verbal spells, have a kind-of rigid fighting stile, very effective though. Can cook up a mighty confusing spell and are lousy at legeremancy… clean up nicely as a muggle, your family is mixed and lives in Southampton and you've got a flat in London."

"Good memory. You gave me a good trashing. Not something I'll forget easily." he says pleasantly. "I used to be James Potter's partner in the auror force, got assigned with him when I made it into the force, just before he died." he explains to the rest of the room. And looking directly towards Lupin adds shrugging: "I'm sorry but it did never come up."

He turns back to Sirius.

"I'm officially in charge of searching for you. Albus Dumbledore told me we need to make this search a sham. We have to make sure that the Ministry never finds you… apparently it is important." He says wryly. Sirius barely reacts at the pun but openly smiles. "It' shouldn't be difficult with the bluff stunt you pulled last year at that dammed airport; sent us on a wild goose chase. Leaving confounding spells, coupled and glamouring with your appearance a bunch of unsuspecting muggle travellers so only wizards could see. The auror division worked on untangling the mess for months looked for him in twenty-six different countries following those muggles trail. Scrimgeour took his time to guess what really happened. For all we know you could be in Haiti." he elaborates.

"Well, thank you." Sirius deadpans.

"I guess you were behind the mess around Hamburg from last month too." Kingsley says.

"No, that was me." says a voice from the threshold.

Kingsley looks from one brother to the other with perplexity in his features; noticing at once the newcomer's astounding resemblance to Sirius himself. It is normal that Regulus takes him off balance, because if he had done his homework about Sirius he _knows_ he doesn't have any living family worth mentioning.

"And this one is the other half of the infamous Black brothers…" Moody growls. "Regulus Black."

"Which he doesn't know and fortunately has no business in knowing." Sirius says. Regulus frowns.

"Okay, I give. What crawled up your ass today?" says with false cheerfulness as he goes dump something bulky and smelly in the trash can by the corner. Sirius' withering glare gets even more piercing.

"Nothing. Nothing _at_ _all_. That's exactly pretty much my point." he growls.

"Riiiight. You are really a sunshine today! You really get a person to feel loved." he spats with false sweetness before leaving the room. Remus snorts.

"You know? This false cheerfulness of his gets to me." he comments "Of course that it would be far worst to have him as grumpy as you but…" Sirius grunts but fakes not paying him any attention at all. Moody cleans his throat.

"Well, those two own this place, and as I told you all the meetings will be held here. If you need anything, at anytime, contact them." Shacklebolt nods, still staring at the door Regulus has just disappeared through.

"Should I know him?" he asks referring to the absentee Black. "His name sounds familiar. And not as Sirius' long deceased brother." Moody snorts.

"Prospective suspect in the Mulleny-Barnet case in 1978. Has had his own file in the Missing Person Archive since 1979, suspected murder." Mad-eye tells him. "Ex-death eater and now member of the Order. Don't trust him." he says, resentment showing through his voice. But he doesn't get to air all his grievances with him because someone else interrupts him.

"So you only came to show him around?" Sirius is still obviously upset with Moody for causing his mother's awakening earlier.

"We had also to make it so it is not known that he and Weasley know each other from now on." Moody informs them. "He is the only other contact within the Ministry. You and Arthur will have to pretend not to get along with each other at work... specially so they don't know you're in. They already suspect Arthur." he tells Mr Weasley.

"That's all?" Sirius asks impatiently.

"No, I wanted to tell you that the next meeting will be held tomorrow evening at 7 pm. And then you'll get to know a few more recruits…"

"How many have you managed to enlist?" asks Arthur.

"About six, counting Shacklebolt here. But not all will be attending; some are only to be considered espionage capability.

"That's good." mutters Remus. "Any news on Voldemort?" the mere mention of the name causes Molly to jump three feet in the air.

"No" says Moody shaking his head. "It looks quite like the calm before the storm. What we need is constant vigilance!" Sirius rolls his eyes at Moody's blatant expression of his self-confessed paranoia. But is glad to realise that he does not jump as the others do.

"Well, if that's all I'm going back to work." and without waiting for a response he leaves the room with a bang of the door.

::::::::::::::

Sirius' voice resounds through the corridor, talking to whom they can't quite tell from inside the old bedroom. The twins move so they were closer to the door to hear.

"Yes, Dumbledore believes he is going to strike soon." comments Sirius. "Luckily we seem to know what he wants this time… that should make it easier. We should not allow it to progress to the massacre of last time."

Molly comes thundering trough the door and pulls it open and comes face to face with Black and Lupin. She glares at Sirius and he glares right back.

"Do not say these things were the children might overhear!" says as she motioned inside the room. "Go back to your chores." and then turns back to Sirius. "Order business doesn't include them!"

"Oh come on, they are going to find about it anyway." says the tall man as he sniggers.

"Come on, don't quarrel again." says Remus nervously. "We're really sorry Molly." she is piercing Sirius with her eyes.

Sirius the turns around and walks down the corridor fuming at Molly's overbearing protectiveness, which is fairly absurd considering the circumstances. They're bound to find sooner or later, or if they don't they could commit stupid mistakes for lack of proper information. Naiveté were your neck is at stake was never a good thing. But who is he to argue this with Molly and Dumbledore no less?

He stops on his tracks and returns to the door to peer inside the room. Regulus is standing alone in the middle of the drawing room. He is standing in front of the family tree, his gaze trailing restlessly over it. His fingers trailed over its branches like a soft caress on the old soft wool. Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Didn't I tell you to go and do something useful?" he says.

"I think I'm going to fix the tapestry sometime…" says Regulus, not quite paying attention to his brother, while never removing his eyes from the old tapestry. "…there are a lot of names missing." Sirius snorts.

"Something _useful_ Regulus." he pronounces in a markedly annoyed fashion as he abandons his post by the door and leaves on whatever errand he had been previously on.

::::::::::::::

By the time of the first true meeting in Grimmauld place the house starts cluttering with the most diverse of people. Some arrive fairly early and simply wait commenting about various issues in the kitchen, where Molly has readily informed them the resident children won't hear.

The ones to arrive earliest, like Professor McGonagall, Moody and Kingsley luckily remember not to use the doorbell. A while later arrive Emmiline Vance, Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle, followed closely by Mundungus Fletcher, much to Molly's displeasure. A new girl appears with Bill.

"Hi, Tonks." says Kingsley as the girl with wild pink spiky hair enters the room, and is about to greet the red-haired boy before being cut by an overexcited Mrs Wealsey.

"Bill!" says as she hugs him. "I was beginning to worry; you haven't dropped by in the last week!"

"Hi Mom." says half-heartedly returning the hug and then turns to Arthur. "Hi Dad."

Remus, who is one of the few whom truly knew everyone in the old Order, is aiming to get to know all the new members too. He steps forward promptly.

"Remus Lupin, you are?" asked as he offers them his hand, and smiles nicely to the young girl, who in turn, smiles broadly.

"Bill Weasley." says the boy as he shakes hands with him. "And you?" says turning to the girl with bright pink hair.

"Nymphadora Tonks." says a deep gravely voice behind them. Bill cringes at the name. The group turns around to a smug Sirius Black, giving off an amused half-smile to the concurrence.

The young woman turns on her heels and blatantly stares at Sirius' thin face, jutting her chin upwards while craning her neck to look up at him. They all stay silent, some of them quite apprehensively. Moody rolls both his eyes and growled.

"Look, I don't care if you believe he is a mass-murderer, despite everything, or if you believe that she is a freak of nature, Black, but you're both part of the Order, so you'll have to deal." he tells them visibly annoyed.

Both ignore him. And then, the next thing they know, much to their collective surprise, is that Tonks is giving Sirius a bone-breaking hug, with her arms around Sirius' waist, burrowing her pixie face in his shoulder. He stays frozen for a few long seconds before returning awkwardly the hug and giving her a couple pats on the shoulder.

"Really Dora… You're depriving me of air. Which mind you it is essential for survival, let me tell you… there is _no_ _need_ to strangle me to death." says as he tries to get rid of her hug.

"Mum always said that you were framed." she says while she rights her head and beams up at him. "I'm so glad to see you!" she says as she finally loosens her grip around her older cousin. "So happy, I mean at first I couldn't believe you were a mass murderer, well I did believe it, but I'm so sorry… And when I heard you were free I was so scared, really sorry, but mum was worried, and I'm so happy to know you did nothing. I mean I should have known it all along but… it was great when Kingsley suggested..." she is drastically interrupted by Sirius, who places a hand in front of her mouth.

"You are babbling, Dora." the girl smiles radiantly.

"Right!" she says cheerfully. "And don't call me Dora! It's Tonks!" she says, giving him a warning glance.

"Yes, whatever Dora." he tells her dismissively.

"You two know each other?" asks Kingsley, rather amused by the turn of events.

"I'm really interested too in knowing how the hell did the fuzzy ball of hair earn the right to hug you." says Regulus as he approaches the group making a show of not being interested. Sirius turns to him and shakes his head, then he turns to Mad-eye and smirks again, battling over either he should not play with him or if it is safe enough to mess with his ideas.

"You never told me that your new recruit was my cousin's daughter, Mad-Eye."

"You're related?" For once, Mad-Eye is not in the know. And Sirius enjoys it immensely.

"Nymphadora is Andy's daughter." Regulus looks interested over his shoulder and his gaze goes from Sirius to Tonks, examining her quite thoroughly.

"DON'T CALL ME NYMPHADORA!" she exclaims heatedly. Both brothers just ignored her outburst quite neatly.

"Really?" asks the younger brother, tilting his head thoughtfully. "She doesn't look like Andromeda."

"Thank Merlin! Would you want the poor kid to go around with that face!" turning to Tonks he looks a tad apologetically at her.

"No problem! After all it is your face too." she says cheerfully.

"Keeping up with your family gets more difficult everyday." says Remus, apparently very amused, who does remember vaguely her being referred to while they were still at school. "They are even coming back from the dead nowadays."

"She's my youngest cousin." says motioning to the girl.

"Now that all's settled." says the girl looking around and aiming at getting introduced to those she doesn't know yet. "I already know you, King. See you everyday… don't expect a handshake, at least now that I can ignore you with impunity." she says to Kinglsey. "You too Bill… You must be Bill's parents?"

"This is my wife Molly and I'm Arthur." says Mr Weasley.

"Nice to meet you… I promise we're not getting up to anything too crass like in school." she says impishly and keeps going. "You said you were Remus?"

"Exactly." says the werewolf with a smile, he is already warming up to her.

"Yes, Saint Remus. He should have a monument made for putting up with me. But it may also be that he likes the food." Remus rolls his eyes and Dora ignores him. "But even well-mannered werewolves are not very picky." he needles his best friend, who frowns at the direct exposure just after meeting someone. Her eyes widen a little but she doesn't look put off, and seconds later she smiles reassuringly at him. Then she returns to look at Sirius.

"Of course I know you… Got you ingrained in my memory possibly forever." says when her eyes reach Sirius. "…and you are? …some kind of relative that for some reason or other I have never met?" says as she lays her eyes on Regulus. Sirius lets out one of his bark-like laughs. "Somehow that doesn't make you sound too good."

"Poor Reggie, he's going to feel excluded." the younger man pierces his brother with an annoyed glare. But Sirius ignores him. "He's my idiot of a younger brother. His name's Regulus, might've heard of him."

"Since when do you have a brother?" asks Dora bewildered, Sirius raises an eyebrow in turn.

"Unfortunately, since he was born." Answers Sirius with his usual sarcasm dripping in inhuman doses.

"It's all an act." he half-whispers to Tonks "He's more of a sentimental than he'll ever admit."

Dora smiles openly; she scrunches her faces and makes it so that her hair has now dark locks intertwined with the flashy pink she had been previously wearing.

"Well, nice to meet you!" and she offers him her hand. "Shaking or hugging? …I mean, I don't really know… if I had to judge by my father's side of the family I'd have to get all _huggy _and such."

"I believe a handshake should suffice." he says as he stretches out his hand and shakes hands with her. Nymphadora seems about to speak again but her attention is swayed away in the precise moment Dumbledore enters the room.

All the members present sit around the large table, Dumbledore himself sits at one end, McGonagall close by. Regulus on his part sits beside his brother, partially hidden by his tall frame and aims to pass mostly unnoticed.

Moody brings a fresh load of news, most of them only rumours running rampant about Voldemort, and various peoples sidling in this battle of wills between Dumbledore and the Ministry. Snape, who has arrived fashionably late, talks about what he knows about the new organization of the Death Eaters. He also manages to drop a thousand hints produced just to needle certain people that do nothing but stay home all day.

Sirius tries valiantly to ignore the jibes, but the task is proving more difficult by the second. He acts as if only a bothersome insect was buzzing inside the room, just for the sake of the Order's functioning. Regulus instead, is not trying to dissimulate his long-borne hatred towards the big-nosed bastard and is piercing Snape with his steely grey eyes.

On the other hand, Sirius is mostly achieving his goal to not look at him, his eyes going from the floor, to the ceiling, to his hands and back to the floor. After a while, with the intermittent bitching still going on, he starts taping the tips of his fingers against the table in a rhythmic sequence, then starts playing with his wand, twirling it dexterously between his fingers. Regulus throws a glance at him from time to time, and knows instinctively that despite the cool indifferent exterior he is getting pretty mad. So he contains himself from calling him upon the wand-thing as he would have otherwise done. Sirius starts slightly rocking his chair back and forth, and then he starts fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve and altogether squirming in his chair.

But Snape seems not to notice and goes on unchallenged. Obviously pretty proud of himself about the reaction he is getting. He is getting more unbearably insufferable by the second. Anyone else with more common sense could have known by now that Sirius' fidgeting has nothing to do with being uncomfortable or even ashamed. In fact it is pretty obvious Sirius is containing himself from jumping up, wand in hand and cursing Snape to next year, because he _knows_ Dumbledore wouldn't approve.

When it comes the time to properly discuss the guard rooster, it finds the order members heatedly discussing the better way of disposing the shifts so nobody will get loaded with an unbearable number of sleepless nights; and if it truly can't be helped that they might need to repeat guards.

The fact is that the order is stretched thin between guarding Harry and watching the Department of Mysteries for whatever Dumbledore thought it is necessary.

"Of course that, we wouldn't be facing this problem to begin with if while some work" sneers yet again Snape "there wouldn't be others that do next to nothing." and that is said throwing a malevolent glance towards Sirius, who finally after no less than two hours of the most sepulchral silence, for he has nothing to say and doesn't believe in idle chatter, snaps.

"Well, if certain prejudiced somebody learnt to shut his trap we wouldn't be here either!" says Sirius, his voice level rising second by second, anger and resentment ringing clear through his words.

"Severus… Sirius, please!" interrupts Dumbledore clearly dismayed.

"Really? What a shame it is." says Snape, throwing knifes at Sirius with his glare. If looks could kill they would have already killed each other on spot.

"The only real shame is that none of your _friends_ never though of disembowelling you when they had the chance." by now both men were on their feet, facing each other over the table, and talking a tad louder that would've been usual for any of them. The voiced insults go on, despite Remus' efforts to get Sirius to sit back down, which are only met by a sideways shove as he shrugs out of his grasp.

"I can't even begin to fit it in my mind how anyone would believe you. Innocent they say… on who truly has no qualms about murder, aren't you?" Snape says venomously. "How can those you call friends trust you impartiality when you freely helped a Death Eater on the loose?"

"Not the best accusation to be made from a treacherous asshole who still _is_ a Death Eater, and is fucking lying trough his teeth!" Regulus places a hand over Sirius' shoulder and no less angered joins into the fight. His words were cutting like broken glass.

"You take pleasure from it, don't you… making people believe you're indispensable, having to accept you stinky presence while grinding their teeth…" he says, just as evilly as Snape can. "Aren't you afraid someday someone might be able to slip venom into the Dark Lord's right-hand man cup?"

"And now the traitorous little thing came to talk. Apparently he even has a tongue? Tired already of hiding behind your brother's shadow?"

"I don't believe I have anything to hide, you're delirious, Snape."

"You both of you… are nothing more than a couple of double-faced self-serving liars." he sneers. "How many of your dirty little secrets should the concurrence know?"

"It takes one to know another, doesn't it Snape?" Sirius glares at him with fire poring out of his eyes, raw hatred palpable in the air; mercurial pools darkened by tempestuous clouds all over.

"You have a nerve to call anyone a liar! But I believe anything would fall too big for you but keeping house." the man was looking at the other two with such hatred it even seemed likely that the acid spewing out of his mouth would burn a hole through his intended victims.

"Watch what you say under my roof, Snape" warns Sirius, his tone dangerously low. "They are many things that you ignore in your blind idiocy."

The room appears to have darkened, the gas lamps dimmed, and become suddenly colder by the moment as Sirius stands there, magic visibly crackling and sizzling around him, before he closes his eyes and slowly releases his breath. Then the house seems to turn to normal as if obeying it Master's unspoken order, as it had previously swiftly obeyed his master's raising temper.

"Of course… I forgot you are also useful babysitting that useless brother of yours." Snape hisses.

A few made a valiant attempt to break the fight.

"Such angst Snape… do you truly believe it is anyone's fault that absolutely nobody would mourn you if you died?" Regulus is reaching the end of his tether, and really about to draw his wand.

"Oh you'll be surprised of how few care when you do."

"And you'd be surprised of how few I care about all the shit you vomit when you talk!" adds Sirius, his voice still dangerously low, his features darkened.

"As if the opinion of two spoiled brats ever counted for something. Two idiots who have had everything and still… they've managed to become _this_." he spats.

"Jealous?" Sirius words are filled with poison. "That's your greatest ambition, isn't it? To have everything you want?"

"No but I am interested… how does it feel to kiss the dust like a common mortal, Black?"

"And how is the sensation of having to beg Snape? Is it comfortable to kneel on the dark cold floor." he is being outright mocking. "Do his feet stink when you kiss them?"

"I will not be insulted by a dim-witted fool such as you!" and more quietly adds. His voice a hiss that rings through the petrified kitchen "You crippled one-armed idiot."

"I'm not one-armed you disgusting greasy swine!" hatred filling every word.

"Enough!" yells Sirius, whose patience has clearly given out. "I will not have another insult uttered under this roof as long as I have another say in it. You go." he says pointedly at Snape. The lights of the kitchen crackle menacingly.

Snape stands there defiantly immobile. Dumbledore seems to see his moment there and has his say:

"I believe Sirius is right. We all should get going." he sounds calm despite everything.

"Look at yourselves… a crazed filthy criminal and a coward that is only alive out of sheer dumb luck when many others more worthy aren't!" says Snape referring to the brothers.

"For the love of Merlin, stop this madness!" yells Moody trying to dissolve the fight that has the exit out of the kitchen blocked.

"At least I can honestly say I didn't have anything to do with the mysterious disappearance of McKinnons!" snaps Regulus. "Can you sleep with yourself?"

"You little…" he hisses.

"Out I said!" Shouts Sirius, arm raised and pointing to the door.

The room is frozen now. Regulus' low blow still rings through the momentary silence like a gong. Snape turns pale, paler even than usual. He turns around and leaves the room in a flurry of robes like bat wings, leaving the house for good.

Whispers arise as soon as he leaves and heads come closer to one another as they apprehensively look towards were the slandering bastard last stood. People start moving, but the two brothers stay still. They are passed by as the rock in the middle of the river is passed by the flowing waters, cautiously avoided by some. The first to move is Regulus, who abruptly turns around and leaves the room with a loud bang. Sirius remains there immobile until the paralyzing hatred he felt moments before begins to wane and he can stop loathing himself for being unable to let bygones be bygones.


	8. Chapter 7: Feels Safe

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Seven – Feels Safe**

Since The Argument Sirius took to the cleaning assignement with unnatural fury. He attacked dirt with furious single-mindedness, he threw away half of the house's décor before anyone could say anything. When casting cleaning spells, to which he had suddenly become incredibly proficient, he pointed his wand at whatever it was as if the gadget had done him some personal offence. He piqued more fights with everyone in that little space of time than he had in almost a month.

The weeks pass by and the cleaning does not seem to reach and end, the end in fact can't even be seen lurking in the horizon. Every time they are satisfied with the state of a room something else comes up or they have to start with the next one. It seems as if there were an endless number of rooms to the house.

Molly and the children keep mostly to the rooms Sirius deems appropriate appointing them to. Molly, for once, doesn't seem eager to discover the reasons why he thinks some rooms are to be left alone for the moment. There are rooms in all the floors which remain mostly closed. They don't know what is in there, but it seems their disinfection isn't necessary for day-to-day accommodation.

So it is the old guestrooms and even the old nursery the rooms that get tackled first, so all members of the Order can rely on having an empty clean bed here on which to crash on. The chambers are taking quite a lot of work because their previous owners belongings are still strewn around, and inside the cupboards and drawers, and they find they usually have to sort trough them to avoid throwing something they will miss later on.

On day, still early July, they re cleaning one of the old playrooms, when Ginny comes across something quite out of place in a house like Grimmauld place.

She is cleaning the drawers of one of the little desks, like Molly had instructed, when she comes across a pile of old parchment and some notebooks; old crayon boxes, unwritten parchment scrolls and small bottles of all-colours Magic-Ink. She picks one of the loose scrapes of parchment on top of the pile, and it is scribbled all over with a nursery rhyme, she skims through some of the notebooks and they are mostly the same.

Then another piece of parchment falls onto her lap. She unfolds it, filled with curiosity. It is a child's drawing. With a wobbly hand someone drew two somethings that resembled vaguely a person, holding hands between them. She looks at it with a smile on her lips. Pretty clearly it was meant to be two little children sitting on a bench.

She turns towards Sirius, who is busy arguing with his brother about the convenience of actually keeping his grandmother finer dressing gowns. Regulus seems to have the idea that if they weren't moth-eaten they could come in handy some day and is therefore a waste to throw them out. Sirius is on the other hand, determined to get rid of the severe, old-fashioned clothing with the excuse that he knows no-one who would willingly put on one of those. She personally thinkgs that Sirius is quite right, but in a few years you might be able to sell those to a museum in the other hand, so antique do they look.

"Oi, Sirius! Should I throw this?" says holding the drawing aloft so that he can see it. Sirius approaches her fuming still and looks sagely at it. A smirk slowly spreads through his face.

"Oh my, my! Reggie look what Ginny found!" says in mock-excited eagerness. Ginny looks at him surprised. Regulus approaches him looking ready to kill him from both their previous argument and the use of his childhood nickname.

"What now?" he says grumpily. His eyes go wide as saucers as he lays his eyes on the picture. "No! Of all the junk scattered through the house you had to find _that_?" says, clearly cursing whatever gods made it so his misfortune today reached such heightened peaks. Throw that away."

"Oh no, no way." now the rest of the _cleaning staff_ is starting to gather to see the show. "It's odious" he protests. "No. Rather it shows your simple-mindedness plainly." Sirius smirks in that haughty, arrogant way of his. Regulus looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. He sighs in resignation. "It's two pigs on a bench!"

"It's not not a couple of pigs on a bench." Sirius turns the paper upside down. "Oh, now I see it! It's a tortoise." says sarcastically the older brother. Regulus snorts. He knows Sirius gets a thrill of torturing him in front of the Order, specially the children. The children are always on Sirius's part. "It's not that either."

"Then I don't get it, sorry I never had much of an artistic mind." Sirius' voice is stained with sarcasm, it is true he has always liked bothering his brother, but now it gives him a way of getting his mind out of his brooding. "Give it to me." he tries to look commanding and reaches out to grab it but his brother keeps it out of reach. "Sirius! Give it to me!" he says practically vibrating in annoyance. Sirius had always been taller than him and right now he had his arm raised as well, so Regulus had no chance in hell to catch it without being reduced to undignified jumping up and down. He was not giving him that satisfaction.

"Sometimes I wonder if you are really 36 years old." He says contemptuously.

He will never know if his reproach affected Sirius in any manner. He suspects not. Unfortunately both their unnaturally fair skin is not capable of a vulgarity such as flushing. But he does finally jump up to yank the parchment out from his hands in a second where Sirius is busier sneering than being annoying. He fails. He feels deeply ashamed of the undignified response Sirius has been able to tear out of him for a moment. And even more annoyed that the only way he lets go of his dark moods is if he finds a way of torturing him publicly.

"Now you show your 35 stones so gracefully."

"I'm still 34 Sirius, my birthday is July 20th." says annoyed. The children are looking amused at the scene playing in front of them. The Black brothers are awfully sarcastic, cruelly biting even. And you would never imagine them capable of reaching the point of childish behaviour, at least with each other.

"But you are also a wizard." he says tauntingly. Regulus glares at his brother. He draws then his wand and summons the paper. Once it is in his possession he goes to crumple it into a ball and throw it into the basket in which Sirius has been dropping the throw-away items but seems to think better of it and folds it neatly only to tuck in into his robes.

Sirius shakes his head, looks at the children, who are looking at him oddly. "What? Back to work." says with an eyebrow raised, shrugging in what would have been a gesture of sangfroid if the wicked glint in his eyes wasn't betraying him, as he himself goes back to work.

::::::::::::::

"Silence! Silence!" says McGonagall to the members of the Order that were gathered in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. The room falls immediately silent as if they were all a bunch of rowdy students at Hogwarts.

"Thank you Minerva. Good afternoon to you all!" says Dumbledore with his usual calmness and even the typical twinkle in his eyes. "The issue I wanted to discuss this evening is of utmost importance. Although it does not have to do with Voldemort as it has to do with the Ministry and Fudge."

"Fudge is behaving quite foolishly." says Arthur clearly displeased at the Ministry's new policies.

All of them have read the Prophet, and lately the slander and insults towards Harry and Dumbledore are growing in tone and intensity. Dumbledore doesn't seem to mind, but they all cringe to think about how Harry will take it. Having survived Voldemort to find himself mocked publicly… But bothered by it or not, the diminishment of Dumbledore's access to the Ministry is in clear detriment of the Order.

Agreeing with Dumbledore is nowadays akin to treason in the Ministry's eyes. And more and more preposterous laws are issued just to thwart Dumbledore and his men.

"The Ministry has started monitoring the floo connection at Hogwarts, and of those of all suspected of joining what they see as an uprising. Owls might very possibly start to be intercepted as a cautionary measure. We know for sure most of us are already being watched at their homes." He informs them.

"The Ministry is putting obstacles, this… bunch of arseholes." bursts Tonks.

"One could say it like that Miss Tonks." Dumbledore agrees benevolently. "And it is precisely because of that that the Order is in need of a safe communicating system between its members. From now on, it is imperative that anything regarding order business is transmitted via _patronus_."

He produces his wand from the depths of his tunic sleeve. Sirius seems suddenly very uncomfortable on his chair.

"Some of the old members might remember me doing it already. But I presume everyone will see the convenience of doing so." he says.

"But it is not very discreet… the _patronus_ are quite visible." Hestia points dubiously.

"Yes, they are. But they are far more secure than any another means of communication. They cannot be intercepted, for once. They can only reach the original addressee and cannot be intercepted or modified by Dark Magic means, as their own positive magical nature makes the impermeable to it. Impersonating someone is also out of the picture with a patronus as it takes a unique form for everyone."

"This means it can be known a message has been sent, but not its contents?" asks Shacklebolt. "It is still risky."

"Exactly." says Dumbledore. "Allow me to demonstrate."

A bird-like creature bursts through the wand tip and flies to the other end of the room majestically. Big as a swan, the creature, which is quite obviously a phoenix, perches itself on an empty chair by the other head of the table with a flurry of feathers. It opens its razor sharp beak and Albus Dumbledore's voice speaks loud through the ethereal figure:

"Any questions?" there were a few shaking of heads all around the table, and the bird vanishes. The words coming from his own mouth he says: "I must leave. The meeting is over."

Having Dumbledore barely said the last words that Sirius rises quite brusquely and leaves the room before anyone else. In a display of what seems unprovoked anger.

"What's wrong with him now?" asks Moody to Remus Lupin. The aforementioned one rolls his eyes.

"Nothing, just woke up on the wrong side of the bed." says Remus, he knows that the truth is that he is just too proud to announce publicly that he is absolutely incapable of conjuring a corporeal patronus. He has never been able to before, he would bet his right hand he won't this time either. After all he has been through it would be a miracle if he was. He doesn't know if Moody has fallen for it but at least he doesn't inquire any further.

That night the dinner with the Weasley's includes not only Bill, who has been intent on teaching English to a foreign girl and hasn't dropped by that often, Tonks and Lupin. Sirius strides into the kitchen with his usual off-handed air of disinterest and cheerful bitterness. Lupin, being his old friend as he is hasn't quite figured out yet how he carries it off, despite years of friendship. That air of '_you don't bother me with your boring complaints and mundane troubles and I won't incinerate you with my Death Glare_' surrounds him as he walks across the kitchen like he was crossing the aisle to be executed.

"I've always been fascinated by _patronus_. They are such a powerful and yet personal spells." comments Tonks to those she has close-by, mainly Lupin and Bill.

"Well… it's a difficult spell." his old schoolmate concedes.

"I've always liked it how they take a specific form for each person, and it is always the same." she adds cheerfully. "I've always been quite fond of my own."

"Everybody is fond of their own because they are mostly reflections of our inner nature or a reflection of the thoughts we usually use to conjure it." Lupin tells her. "But in some cases, like after a severe emotional upheaval, a witch's or wizard's _patronus_ may change form."

"I've never heard of that." Regulus puts in curious for a moment.

"Unfortunately it can happen." he answers.

"I think we should know each other's patronus!" says Tonks. "Don't you all think so? I mean, a _patronus_ can not be forged or copied but if you don't know which shape it takes you can't know who's sending it.

"Yes, you are right on that one Tonks." says Remus. Sirius is looking down at his plate all the while, trying to ignore the conversation going on. "Although…"

"Don't be thick. You really don't need to know the shape, you'll recognise the voice." says Sirius at long last in quite a rude fashion, interrupting Remus.

"Sirius, are you Ok?" asks Dora, being her adorably nice self. Sirius looks at her and nods curtly.

"Yes, yes. Just forgot to do something." growls the older Black, and leaves behind the almost untouched remnants of his dinner when he leaves the room. Regulus sighs, he knows that something is bothering him but can't pinpoint what, and he has become quite attuned to his brother's moods in just a few weeks.

"What's wrong with him?" asks Bill, clearly puzzled. "He's been like this since the meeting." Remus shakes his head.

"He just doesn't like admitting that he can't perform a corporeal _patronus_, that's all." explains the werewolf. That captures Regulus' attention and his eyebrows are suddenly high into his hairline. He might've suspected, but he hadn't known. Oh, how Sirius must hate it, accustomed as he is at excelling at everything.

"Well…" says nonchalantly Regulus to the rest. "I guess that makes me the official intermediary, from here. That's all."

"Sirius doesn't know how to do a _patronus_?" asks Tonks astonished. Having survived Azkaban most people assume that Sirius must have incredible mastery of the spell.

"Would you? If you had seen as much as Sirius has, I would be quite possible that you wouldn't. This isn't about having the brains or the power; it's about having the memories." Remus tells her. She shrugs apologetically.

"Well, mine is a flamingo." she offers. "I like it, 'cause its flashy."

"Definitely." says Bill, smiling. "Mine's a mongoose. Yours, Remus?"

"Doesn't require much imagination. It's a wolf." the werewolf volunteers mildly.

"You don't need much imagination to guess dad's either." says Bill smiling. "He told me once it is a weasel." he tears chuckles from his audience with that.

Regulus pushes black his chair, and the scraping of wooden legs on rough stone floor brings attention to himself without meaning to.

"You aren't incapable of doing one too, aren't you?" asks him Nymphadora, looking concerned.

"No." is his succinct answer. He swallows the last meatball from his plate hurriedly and goes to place the dish in the stone sink. "And it's a dog." he tells them as he passes them by when leaving the cluttered kitchen. With his back turned he is not able to see the momentary surprise in Lupin's eyes.

He walks hastily through the corridors of the house. He looks in every room. He his search brings him to the second floor. When he finally finds Sirius he is in his father's old study. They still haven't cleaned it and the dust swirls in the air in thick clouds. He knows it was likely he'd find him here because being an unclean room, is out of most members' route.

He just remains at the doorframe looking at his brother's profile. He is turned so his back is to him, facing one of the large windows. The window panels are of good glass and the faint light there is left passes through them neatly, but the atmosphere is still sombre. He is looking down on the back yard and past there one can see a badly illuminated backstreet. He obviously lost in his thoughts.

Regulus walks into the room towards his brother and comes to a halt fairly close to him. He can sense he is worried. But not the kind of worry Sirius would allow himself to demonstrate openly. He can only guess it has to do with the _patronus_.

He cringes when he has to admit that a while back, had he learnt of this, he would have probably felt an insurmountable glee and would've hurried to humiliate him with it. He never ceases to be disgusted by his former self's petty and unnecessarily cruel nature. He would anyways, if at least Sirius would give the least impression he was going to fight back, if he was being his usual bitterly cheerful self.

He can relate with the feeling of feeling incapable, unfit. He has felt inadequate many times in his life, and he doesn't think this is an issue worth grieving over. But the reasons behind all this could not be that simple. Being in Azkaban has obviously damaged Sirius' memories and his outlook on life.

And he has had a though life since the very day he was born. His childhood was cold and void of games and laughter, weighed down by his family's expectations of him. Still there were happy moments, snippets of memory congealed in time, that Regulus treasures, and which help him get over the longer bitter lonely moments of his existence. Those moments in which the frost melted momentarily and the sun shone brightly instead of the dull muted light coming through the permanently frozen windows of Grimmauld Place. He looks back at them and although they do not make it all suddenly worthwhile, they make it bearable, the burdens lighter.

But to Sirius it is not like that. The happy memories of his boyhood are tarnished by what would later come. He doesn't see his mothers smile anymore without seeing the cruelty underlying. He cannot bear to remember his father without feeling the disappointment in the air. When he remembers his brother he can almost feel the accusation in his eyes. It is no matter that they weren't there at the time. The knowledge of what is to come makes them grotesque nightmares, and the tranquillity of those far and few between sweet moments looses its force immediately.

The merry memories of his days at Hogwarts childhood are sullied with Peter's presence and the knowledge that his familiar failure is the very beginning to his crazy teenage years. In every event he is able to bring back to memory Peter is there, smiling and laughing with his pointy nose and rodent teeth, and the bile rises immediately to his mouth. And then, even the wonderful warm summer days laying lazy in the sun at James' are only a remainder of the earth-shattering argument that tore him definitely away from his family.

The war bore down on them mercilessly. People they knew were murdered, they themselves did things they would've never imagine they'd have the stomach to do. Death and fear, and so little time to drink in the good things. And the Potters' death. Azkaban.

It is not his ability to conjure a patronus what brought him through twelve years in hell. No. It was his animagus condition, and his ability to block his mind from all external influence with great measure of success. A will of iron. He suffered through interminable years in a three square meters cell, no-one to talk to, loosing track of time and being reminded over and over again of the lowest points in his life. Nonetheless when things became unbearable he retracted into his animal self and blocked his mind form his guardian's prodding. He spent twelve years in this self-induced lethargic state. Otherwise he would've gone mad.

He curled up on himself while the conscious resented and angry part of himself still capable of coherent thinking slept and waited. It was only waiting for something to stir him into action. He found it in Fudge's paper. Revenge. Anger.

None of it happy memories.

Regulus fights the temptation of hugging him. Sirius has never liked to be touched, not even as a child and he remembers it quite clearly, how he would protest loudly and never even give the least indication that he craved such shows of affection from their parents. To be honest neither of them is quite like that. They prefer to keep their distance, to allow others their privacy. But Sirius tolerates it even less since he got out of Azkaban, unless in one of those moods in which he initiates the gesture.

Regulus looks up at his brother and places a hand on his shoulder. As he had expected Sirius shivers at the contact and he can feel his whole body tense under the palm of his hand. But not only does he not release him but he keeps a stronger grip until Sirius loosens his muscles a bit again.

He keeps his hand there, the body heat passing through his palm connecting them, the physical connexion a wordless expression of support. Neither of them would ever dream of saying anything aloud. It is not their way.

Actions, on the other hand are much easier to bring forth. Gestures speak louder than words in their case. After all it is easy to lie through words, but an insincere touch feels false immediately. Actions do not require such effort, such disregard of personal dignity or pride. It is a touch that says '_I understand how you feel'_, a touch that says _'I commiserate'_.

Sirius accepts it without question, and accepts that what others will never understand, it is the most painful remainder of his shallow past who offers.

Because after all, theirs is a relation of unspoken love and proclaimed hate.


	9. Chapter 8: Demented

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Eight - Demented**

The sound of claws scratching the floor fills the room, as an enormous animal walks up and down the room. It is a middle-sized room and not especially lighted. It has been emptied on purpose, to make space for the hippogriff Buckbeack. He is a rather nice hippogriff that helped Sirius escape Hogwarts a couple years ago and has been his companion in his travels ever since.

Sirius likes to spend uncountable hours up there, where nobody ever comes much, taking care of the half-bird half-horse creature, brushing him and talking to him. Just like he is doing right now.

"You know the best part, of it Buckbeack?" says as he passes a soaked sponge over the animal's neck. "I hate this place; I thought I wouldn't have to step a foot in it again never again. Guess I was wrong." adds quietly. "As they say… not even the wise can see all ends."

After that he remains in silence for a while focusing only in the task at hand, cleaning Buckbeack with affection. His peaceful occupation is interrupted by the creaking and groaning of the door opening, as the old wood complains at being moved by its hinges. He turns to see his brother standing on the threshold of the room.

"I knew I would find you here." he says quietly.

It is sometimes incredible how someone who has spent the best part of seventeen years utterly alone can crave human company in such a way that feels tempted to look Sirius up in this accursed house. One would think he would be accustomed to it by now. Sirius certainly is. Sometimes too many people grate on his nerves and needs the period of isolation with himself and his thoughts.

Sirius nods and turns back to his task; he knows that if he has something to say he will, eventually.

Regulus closes the door behind him carefully and gets closer to the hippogriff wit caution. He bows slowly to it, making eye-contact with the big yellow eye that observes him carefully all the way. Then Buckbeack bows back and the younger man get closer to caress the feathered head of the proud regal beast. He grabs a sponge and starts helping in the improvised bath.

"I see you still remember how to approach a hippogriff." says Sirius. Regulus just smirks.

"Always paid more attention in class than you did." he says right back. "And always got worse marks…" adds. "...which shouldn't add up." Sirius chuckles.

When talking to each other they always seem to turn to the times they spent at Hogwarts, and occasionally even further away. And shoot veiled reproaches back and forth. Regulus seems to instinctively avoid any reference to the time they've both spent out of the magical scene.

"So that's what was all about; you were jealous, Reg." says Sirius, his eyebrow raised in a clear indication of his amusement about the half-hearted confession.

"No… not like that. It is just that after hearing Slughorn praising your superior talent for years and complaining about how much of a pity it was that you were not in Slytherin… one started to wonder who was in his house, you or I." Sirius snickers.

"Tiresome" says Sirius. "Yes, he was." with this they felt back into their shared silence. Because among them, they only verbalise what is less than relevant. What really means nothing and can never be taken at heart's value. The things that truly matter are never truly spoken about, at risk of severe awkwardness and discomfort.

"Hey." says Sirius after a few minutes of silence. Regulus raises his head. "Your birthday is in two days!"

Regulus rises and eyebrow while trying to control the laughter coiling in his stomach. He is touched that Sirius remembered. After all, his sense of time has proved to be rather wonky.

"So what?" he says instead. "It's a big deal. I'm going to ask Molly to make a huge cake, and we're going to sing _happy birthday _raucously." says the eldest with false enthusiasm.

"You wouldn't dare." Regulus admonishes as he pierces his brother with his eyes. "You know I never liked birthday parties, it reminds me that I'm getting older by the second. We are not children anymore." Sirius chuckles. "And I'll also have to find a present."

"You don't have to give me a present." says Regulus. "What would you give me? A feather-duster? Or a blissful week of respite from your incessant nagging?" he asks sarcastically.

"Wouldn't you like to know"

"Just don't do anything too embarrassing." Sirius smirks evilly. It is a gesture that has the inconvenience of showing far too many teeth and rather reminds Regulus of a shark. He isn't entirely sure Sirius is not aware of it, he might do it on purpose.

"Me? Were do you get that idea from?" he says innocently, with a tongue-in-cheek demeanour that is refreshing. "Maybe that time you decided to celebrate my birthday in June and congratulated me shouting it at the top of your lungs in the middle of the Great Hall during lunch in first year. The thought would _never_, ever, cross your mind."

"I really can't recall that, I do think you are a bit confounded."

The minutes tick by and neither one nor the other talk. The only thing that can be heard are the snorts and squeaks of Buckbeack. Each one immersed in their own thoughts.

"Sirius." says Regulus in an attempt at getting his brother's attention, in which he succeeds. Sirius looks at him with his piercing grey eyes, motioning him to go on and say whatever he wants to say, which is obviously nagging at him.

"I never really got the chance to thank you for helping me all those years ago and what really I don't get…" Sirius' eyes narrow dangerously as he talks, but he never gets the chance to finish what he is saying. A loud shriek fills the house. Sirius curses under his breath and leaves the room hurriedly, heading towards the yelling portrait.

"I swear that if I catch the arsehole that still has not understood the meaning of '_do NOT use the doorbell',_ I'm going do him permanent harm!"

Regulus remains there, after the flurry of wings feathers and robes, while Buckbeak is looking balefully at him with his great yellow eye. He combs his fingers through the warm feathers of the ruff, and pats him consolingly. He could swear that the beast is far too intelligent for its own good.

He has wanted for long to talk for just five minutes for the past few weeks. It just seems that he can't seem to find the appropriate moment. Either that or his courage falters and he doesn't say anything in the end. He just wants for Sirius to stay still for long enough and silent for long enough, so he can finally spout all these doubts that are nagging him. They crowd him in his very sleep. Having Sirius in his life all day is bad enough to have him also in his sleep every night. There is a million questions he wants to ask and not tactful way of asking them.

Sirius doesn't talk to him in two days.

::::::::::::::

It is Monday morning, and Molly is busy serving breakfast to the children, while Sirius and Remus talk among themselves about Order business out of hearing from the children. Luckily for them the children are so loud and boisterous that Molly cannot hear them, because they are discussing issues that Molly would surely disapprove in the present company.

It is then that the younger of the Blacks decides to turn up for breakfast. A mischievous grin appears on Sirius' face as he sees him approach in with the sleep still clinging to him like a second skin. Nobody would notice really, except that they're brothers and that just should explain all.

"_Haapyy…Bi…"_ Sirius starts in an horrible sing-song voice, loudly enough to turn all heads towards them. "Don't even think about it!" Regulus cuts him off horrified. "_…rthday_." Sirius finishes flatly. Regulus pierces through his very skull with his eyes. "At least I didn't ask Molly to make you a cake." says earnestly, as if it were a terrible sacrifice. Regulus merely glares.

"Today's your birthday?" asks Molly looking at him with honest interest.

"Aye, today Regulus is already 35!" exclaims Sirius making a terrible impression of an overexited six-year-old, only to annoy Regulus further, of course; as he handed a mug of coffee to his younger brother. He is about to continue in his pursuit but Regulus talks first.

"Arggh!" he says disgusted after sipping his coffee. "And if you keep making coffee like this, he's not going to see the 36! You should be banned from the coffee pot." He can see Lupin's lips twitch from the corner of his eyes, but Sirius is busy being obnoxious and does not see. He takes rather badly to his perceived stealing of Lupin's friendliness. The suppressed giggles of the children can be easily heard. "Does anybody know how he managed to make coffee this time? Molly?"

"I'm afraid that arriving first." she says exasperated. "He gave you one of his on purpose. Here, I made some more." says as she hands him another mug.

"Thank you. And I did tell you I did not want any kind of surprise." he turns to Sirius and tells him all the while frowning as he serves himself a glass of pumpkin juice and some toast. "Oh, but I felt like it! I can't remember the last we celebrated a birthday of yours." says his brother, in the back of his eyes it can be seen a hint of sadness. "You've grown up quite a bit since."

"You should have told me, you know." Molly says aloud from the other side of the kitchen. "Some one's birthday is a big event, a date of remark. You should've given me some warning; I would've prepared something special. After all you are in your own house… you shouldn't refrain of celebrating just because the rest of us are here."

Regulus looks positively murderous, seething and glaring at Molly and cursing her poor people skills (at least if it is complicated people). Then, without even warning, Sirius slides something towards him.

It is a small ivory locket with silver appliqués in small leaves pattern that used to belong to Uncle Alphard. He always kept it in his breast pocket, and was one of his favourite not-so-cheap trinkets. Regulus opens it to find that apparently Uncle Alphard had used it as a diminutive portable shrine. There were two small pictures in it. Or not exactly two photos as two pictures cut out of the same photograph. Both of the two children, around six or seven years old, had over their small shoulders an arm covered in the light dark fabric of a summer cloak. The landscape could be vaguely seen in the background. Both were placed as if they had been at each side of older man, who didn't appear himself.

'_But for what exactly would I want to see myself when it is enough to look into the mirror everyday'_, he can hear his uncle's voice in his mind; '_the horror, once everyday is more then enough!'_ He is pretty certain he never said that, but it came to his mind as soon as he saw the way in which he had mutilated the poor photograph.

He recognises the picture easily; it had been taken during the summer of 1967 at the Crystal Hall in Derbyshire, on a 20th July, like today. Uncle liked it more than others, presumably because none of them was trying to strangle the other when it was taken and the both looked relaxed. And yes, happy.

"Don't get used to it." says Sirius. "From now on, every single other trinket I find goes to charity." he says. He hasn't quite forgiven him for any of the times he has held his hand.

"I remember that day." said Regulus. "Uncle Alphard said he liked the picture because we weren't trying to pull each other's eyes off."

"You didn't pull my eyes off, you twat. You bit." reminds him Sirius.

"And you definitely know how to hold a grudge." He makes a small smile, which probably nobody notices, at Sirius and puts the locket and the chain in his jacket pocket.

"What was that?" Lupin asks to break the silence. Sirius looks at his friend with an affection Regulus is still somewhat jealous of. "And then they say that I am the nosy one." Remus lupin's wry smile is fond, and he raises his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, sorry curiosity killed the cat… and if curiosity didn't kill the cat…" he says almost smug. "… then Sirius will." Sirius finishes impatiently for him. "It's been years since you've been so silly, Remus. About time to change an old joke." Remus laughs and Sirius shakes his head.

"Have you heard about Harry?" says Lupin then.

"What about Harry? What's wrong?" Sirius asks, obviously worried that he missed something on the only issue that truly interests him as of late.

"Nothing, nothing. He's fine. But Dumbledore told me that he'll be brought here for the rest of the summer in brief." Sirius' face reflects happiness and incredulity, and produces a true smile for the first time in weeks.

"Really? That's great! Superb" Remus smiles too.

When he finally leaves the kitchen he is whistling a merry tune. He'll be able to see Harry again, because he hasn't seen him since the events of the Triwizard Tournament, when Voldemort came back to life and almost killed Harry. And he has been worried all summer long. And he ventures hoping that, maybe his misgivings were unfounded, for once.

::::::::::::::

"Who's Harry?" asks Regulus puzzled at the immediate reaction the sole mention of the name is capable of producing in a room's atmosphere, and even in Sirius. Especially in Sirius, Sirius is never happy.

The rest throw odd looks at him. People seem to forget easily that he has been out of the wizarding world for almost two decades; Especially those living with him most of the time, which is most ironic.

"Harry Potter, as in Harry Potter The Boy Who Lived." says one of the twins. "The Boy-Who-Lived?"

To be fair with him, it isn't that he is thick. Although the concurrence right now seems to think so. The name Potter is familiar to him, as it was his brother's best friend's name, and that might explain Sirius cheerfulness. The fact that the child is mentioned by himself, without parents or anything is… self-explanatory. But he has not been reading the Prophet. He did that in the first two days he spent in England. But since he joined the Order, the only news he's interested in are far more reliably delivered by the Order's own means, and he, like the rest ignores the newspapers. He has, thusly, not seen the slander hidden between the lines.

"Yeah… the one who defeated You-Know-Who the first time around." the other twin says.

His head is spinning when he hears that. Becaus it makes no fucking sense. That, there was not a Harry Potter old enough for that, he could almost swear by it. He had assumed it the name of a child. Perhaps the child of Privet Drive they're all so intent in coddling. He hasn't really been paying attention. Lupin shakes his head at his astonished reaction.

"You should be better off reading about it in some contemporary history book. Most of us are uncomfortable talking about it." he tells him with a commiserative glance.

What Regulus thinks is that he would be damn lucky if in this god-forsaken place he is able to find a Contemporary Magic History book which is actually contemporary anymore. Then the bushy-haired nerdy-looking girl that always goes around with the youngest Weasley says:

"I think I've got one of those if you want…"

::::::::::::::

More than a week later, on the second of August, Arthur Weasley bursts into the house one evening with an alarmed look upon himself. He looks dishevelled, glasses slightly askew and has clearly left wherever he was in a hurry. That is enough to give those assembled in the kitchen a bad feeling.

Arthur works in the Ministry, so whatever has happened can't be good.

"They've expelled Harry!" he exclaims, while wringing his hands nervously. Sirius goes several shades paler than he already is, and he raises himself in an abrupt gesture from his spot by the end of the table.

"What? No!" says Molly looking every bit as alarmed as her husband, one breath away from clutching her chest. "Yes! apparently he did magic…" he trails off because the loud ringing of the door bell announces another arrival and soon enough Remus is in the kitchen again with Mundungus in tow, looking quite contrite.

"Wasn't it your guard?" Sirius asks accusingly.

"Yeah, but 'ere was that other thing…" starts wailing Mundungus before Molly almost bangs the frying pan she is holding against his thick skull, which she is very tempted to do. "Have any of you contacted Dumbledore already, told him what's going on?" Remus asks, being practical as ever. "Yes." squeaks Mundungus. Still being the recipient of the death glares of both Sirius and Molly.

"Yes, I sent a message as soon as the Ministry found out." says Mr Weasley. "What happened there?" says Sirius, already fairly stressed by now. "He sounded bored out of his mind last time he wrote, but not any more than usual."

"I went away jus' for a momen' and jus' then a coupla dementors find 'im. Strange thing to happen, I say…" Mundungus says eyeing warily at Molly. Sirius crosses the length of the kitchen, more than upset.

"Dementors!" he snorts. "In Little Whining! There's no bloody dementors in Surrey!" he explodes. "What the Ministry should be worried about is what the hell were two dementors doing in fucking Surrey!"

"I don't know!" squeals Mundungus.

"The Ministry is denying it." says Arthur, trying to convene the gravity of the situation.

"But sure thing, they'll at least give him the chance to explain himself… If there were dementors out there he didn't really have a choice!" protests Sirius, absolutely furious.

"That's what Dumbledore is trying to get from them, I think…"

"They expelled without a proper investigation of the circumstances! He should be at least granted a hearing!" Sirius is fuming.

"Sirius calm down!" Remus shouts to get his attention, but himself is more than a bit rattled. The kitchen rings with tense silence as all of them look at each other, helpless. "We only can wait now."

::::::::::::::

Hours from the bomb news landing in Grimmauld Place the ambient is tense. Sirius has written a short worried letter to Harry in an attempt to have him stay in place and not repeat the foolishness of that time he blew up his aunt Marge. With Death Eaters in the loose and the Ministry biting their arse it is not the moment.

In the wee hours of the morning, Sirius still paces the kitchen like a caged animal.

"Sirius, he's fine. Mrs Figg told us that he had not a single scratch." Remus tells him for the umpteenth time.

"That's not the point! Don't you see it?" says approaching his friend. "Someone had to send those dementors after Harry, there's no dementors in Surrey!"

"We know, Sirius." he answers tiredly. He has been woken up by Sirius' angry stomping on the stairs before, his werewolf hearing sensitive this close to the full moon.

"We should have brought him here long before! We should've known something like this would happen!"

"Sirius, _calm_ _down_! Harry's fine." he tries to soothe. "We'll get him out of this one and from now on you'll be able to keep an eye on him." Sirius seems to calm down a bit, but is still consumed by restless energy. "What if we can't? He needs to attend Hogwarts."

"Now, listen to me, in three, four days at most an Andvanced Guard will go pick him up. And no, you can't go and ask Dumbledore to come. We don't need more complications than there already are. He'll arrive perfectly safe to Grimmauld Place. I'll make sure of it. Ok?"

Sirius nods, but keeps looking sombrely, his face grim.


	10. Chapter 9: The Visitor

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Nine – The Visitor**

The meeting is long and boring; Sirius' mind isn't in it at all, but rather halfway across the country with the Advanced Guard. He is worried because they're not there yet, but considering Mad-Eye leads them it would be a wonder if they did arrive before midnight.

When the haphazard group that makes up the Advance Guard; Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley, Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle, Emmeline, Sturgis, and Hestia begins to fill the room, he feels himself relax almost imperceptibly. All the room seems to emit a collective sigh of respite.

And when the meeting goes on the present members of the Order of the Phoenix are actually paying attention once more.

::::::::::::::

Sirius watches the people fill out of the room. He himself gathers part of the papers that are close by and makes the trip upstairs to leave them somewhere safe and away from the curious eyes of the children. He passes before his mother's closed curtains while coming out of the kitchen and drops them over an old sofa in a living room at ground level. He leaves the task of seeing everyone out and closing the old front door, trying to seal magically all the locks and bolts, to Remus, Molly and Tonks.

He'll be joining the crowd in the kitchen and all the children as soon as he's done.

"Tonks!" he hears Mrs. Weasley cry in exasperation, as a loud bang resonates through the house. The voices of the conversation keep going louder and louder. He sighs to himself.

"I'm sorry!" wails Tonks, apparently she has tripped all over the troll leg stand. "It's that stupid umbrella stand, that's the second time I've tripped over…" The rest of her words are drowned by a horrible, ear-splitting, blood-curdling screech. His mother is awake again and the screaming coming from the hideous portrait is deafening. Sirius closes his eyes in consternation. He truly hates that abominable portrait with every fibre of his being.

"Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers…" When the screams do not cease, but become even louder as they are joined by the rest of the gradually awakening portraits he swirls around and goes to join the mess in the entry hall.

Sirius comes charging out of the door, catching a small glimpse of Harry standing there with a stunned look, as Tonks apologises over and over again, dragging the huge, heavy troll's leg back off the floor and Mrs. Weasley goes on stunning all the other portraits with her wand;

"Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!" he roars, seizing the curtain. His mother's face blanches.

"Yoooou!" she howls, her eyes popping at the sight of Sirius. "Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!"

"I said… shut…UP!" roars the tall man again, and with an enormous effort he and Lupin manage to force the curtains closed again. Her screeches die and an echoing silence falls over them. Panting slightly he sweeps his long dark hair out of his eyes, it having come out of its restrains in the struggle as it happens every time he has to rush down here. Sirius turns to face Harry.

"Hello, Harry" he says grimly "I see you've met my mother."

"Your mother?" asks Harry appearing surprised. Sirius smirks. It's good to see the boy again, and see that he is in fact in one piece. He has that way of looking at everything with big surprised eyes.

"My dear old mum, yeah" says Sirius quietly. "We've been trying to get her down for a month but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas. Let's get downstairs, quick, before they all wake up again."

"But what's a portrait of your mother doing here?" Harry asks, bewildered, as they go through the door from the hall that leads the way down to the kitchen, the others following close.

"Hasn't anyone told you? This was my parents' house" says Sirius. "But I was Black heir, so it's mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for Headquarters, about the only useful thing I've been able to do." Sirius voice is hard and bitter. Harry him to the bottom of the steps, through a long corridor and door leading into the basement kitchen.

The room is still a mess; many chairs have been crammed into the room for the meeting and the long wooden table standing in the middle of them is littered with rolls of parchment, goblets and empty wine bottles. Mr. Weasley and Bill are talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table. Mrs. Weasley clears her throat, and Arthur looks around and jumped to his feet to greet Harry.

"Journey all right, Harry?" he hears Bill call while he is trying to gather up twelve scrolls at once. "Mad-Eye didn't make you come via Greenland, then?"

"He tried" says Tonks, striding over to help Bill and managing to topple a candle on to the last piece of parchment. "Oh no, sorry!"

"Here, dear" says Mrs. Weasley exasperated, and she repairs the parchment with a wave of her wand. Mrs. Weasley quickly noticing Harry's interest in the parchment snatches the plan off the table and stuffs it into Bill's already overloaded arms. "This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings." she snaps.

Then she sweeps off to the dresser from which she starts unloading dinner plates. Bill takes out his wand, muttering _'Evanesco!_' and the scrolls vanish.

"Sit down, Harry" Sirius says as he motions a chair. "You've met Mundungus, haven't you?" The man, dressed in drags and hunched over himself gives a prolonged, grunting snore, and then jerks awake.

"Some'n say m'name?" he mumbles sleepily. "I 'gree with Sirius…" He raises a very grubby hand in the air as though voting, his droopy, bloodshot eyes unfocused.

"The meeting's over, Dung," says Sirius amused, as they all sit down around the boy at the table. "Harry's arrived."

"Eh?" says Mundungus, peering balefully at Harry through his matted ginger hair. "Blimey, so 'e 'as. Yeah… you all right, 'Arry?"

"Yeah" Harry answers lamely. Mundungus fumbles nervously in his pockets, still staring at Harry, and pulls out a grimy black pipe. He sticks it in his mouth, ignites the end of it with his wand and takes a deep pull on it. Great billowing clouds of greenish smoke obscure him within seconds.

"Owe you a 'pology" grunts from the middle of the smelly cloud.

"For the last time, Mundungus," calls Mrs. Weasley, "will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen, especially not when we're about to eat!"

"Ah" says Mundungus. "Right. Sorry, Molly." says as he stows his pipe back in his pocket.

Right then, a tall man with silky black hair that looks a lot like Sirius, enters the kitchen smoking what actually looks like a cigarette. A big cloud of smoke leaves his mouth and curls into the air. Sirius sighs.

"Regulus, Molly has just told Dung not to smoke in the kitchen and you come in smoking those." he says, sounding a bit more bothered by it than when Dung was smoking. "Besides, it does you no good. Half of the family has died from that disgusting internal rot1…" Regulus mutters something, but nonetheless puts it out.

"Happy Sir?" he says. He sits down and looking at Harry, the small build and the messy jet-black hair immediately familiar, he adds: "Is this mini-Potter?"

Sirius pays him no mind, he knows better than anyone that with Harry looking so much like James, Regulus knows perfectly well who he is; but he notices the way Harry is looking at his brother and squirming uncomfortably as his brother's unsettlingly light eyes bear into him.

"This is Regulus Black, Harry." says motioning to his brother and giving him a warning glance that Regulus seems to notice without seeing it, for he stops immediately.

"You two are related?" Harry asks surprised. And as the resemblance is uncanny, Regulus can't help but look heavenwards. _As bright as his father._ Although he doesn't say it out loud for obvious reasons. Sirius gives him a crooked grin.

"He is my brother, as nature would have it no other way."

"Really, don't mind me." says Regulus sarcasm staining his voice, and feeling no need to defer the children presence and not indulge in the hard-earned right to bite back at his brother. "Keep acting as if I'm not here, I really don't care."

"Oh, stop whining." says Sirius as he sits across him and next to Harry. Then Molly turns to the room, not looking very happy.

"If you want dinner before midnight I'll need a hand." Molly says, then turns to Harry. "No, you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you've had a long journey." and she motions Harry to seat back again.

"What can I do, Molly?" says Tonks enthusiastically, bounding forwards. Mrs. Weasley hesitates, looking apprehensive.

"Er, no, it's all right, Tonks, you have a rest too, you've done enough today."

"No, no, I want to help!" says Tonks brightly, knocking over a chair as she hurries towards the dresser, from which Ginny is collecting cutlery.

"Good God, don't let her help." mutters Regulus. "She's going to burn the house down." Sirius chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn't contradict him.

Soon, a series of heavy knives are chopping meat and vegetables of their own accord, supervised by Mr. Weasley, while she stirs a cauldron dangling over the fire and the others take out plates, more goblets and food from the pantry. Harry is left at the table with Sirius, his brother and Mundungus, who is still blinking at the boy mournfully.

"Seen old Figgy since?" asks the aforementioned.

"No" says Harry, "I haven't seen anyone."

"See, I wouldn't 'ave left," says Mundungus, leaning forward, a pleading note in his voice, "but I 'ad a business opportunity…" Regulus snorts loudly, on purpose, of course.

Harry starts as something brushes against his knees, only to realise it is Crookshanks, Hermione's bandy-legged ginger cat, wounds himself once around Harry's legs, purring, then jumps on to Sirius's lap and curls up while nuzzling his hand. Sirius scratches him absent-mindedly behind the ears as he turns, still grim-faced, to Harry.

"Had a good summer so far?" asks the grey-eyed man.

"No, it's been lousy," says Harry. Something like a grin flits across Sirius's face.

"Don't know what you're complaining about, myself." Regulus rolls his eyes, somehow he has the slight suspicion of what his brother is about to say.

"What?" said Harry incredulously.

"Personally, I'd have welcomed a Dementor attack. A deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely. You think you've had it bad; at least you've been able to get out and about, stretch your legs, get into a few fights… I've been stuck inside for a month."

"How come?" asks Harry, frowning.

"Because the Ministry of Magic's still after me, and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big disguise is useless. There's not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix… or so Dumbledore feels."

"Stop complaining, I've been stuck in here too for as long as you have." says Regulus without raising his eyes from the table. Harry looks surprised.

"Why?" Regulus sighs, but does take the effort of explaining.

"I look too much like him."

"Because seeing a walking, talking corpse in the middle of London wouldn't alert Voldemort's lackeys…" Sirius contradicts him, and Regulus blatantly ignores him. Of course none of the children do understand what Sirius means by corpse but their attention is somewhere else.

"At least you've known what's been going on." says Harry instead.

"Oh yes…" says Sirius sarcastically. "Listening to Snape's reports, having to take all his snide hints that he's out there risking his life while I'm sat on my backside here having a nice comfortable time… asking me how the cleaning's going."

"What cleaning?" asked Harry.

"Trying to make this place fit for human habitation," says Sirius, waving a hand around the kitchen. "No one's lived here for ten years, not since my dear mother died, and as Regulus killed the damned house elf…"

"I keep pleading that I did not kill him…" he says in an oddly calm way.

"You just _gave him a little push_, I know." says as he looks down at his brother, daring him to argue the point further at the moment. Hermione turns beet red, but by now the Blacks know better that paying her any mind when it comes to this.

"Sirius," says Mundungus, who does not appear to have been paying any attention to the conversation, but has been closely examining an empty goblet. "This solid silver, mate?"

"Yes," says Sirius, surveying it with distaste, and Regulus face hardens. "Finest fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed with the Black family crest."

"That'd come off, though," mutters Mundungus, polishing it with his cuff. And that is it to Regulus.

"And there are twenty-seven of those" he says hissing as he places a hand on the cup Mundungus has been holding. "If I find one, just one missing, you are going to find out why they say Sirius is nice."

"Calm down, mate!" says Dung, sinking deeper in his seat. "Just curios'." the younger brother doesn't remove his hand, but keeps it hovering over the cup.

"Then stop apprising things." he pulls back. Mundungus squirms under the gaze of the younger of the Black brothers.

"He seems to be quite fond of the silverware." says Sirius to Harry, concerning his brother. "He took after mother in that."

Then Molly's piercing voice fills the room. "Fred… George… NO, JUST CARRY THEM!" Mrs. Weasley shrieks.

They look round and, within a split second, they have to dive away from the table. Fred and George have bewitched a large cauldron of stew, an iron flagon of Butterbeer and a heavy wooden breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through the air towards them. The stew skids the length of the table and comes to a halt just before the end, leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface; the flagon of Butterbeer falls with a crash, spilling its contents everywhere and the bread knife slips off the board and lands, point down and quivering ominously, exactly where Sirius's right hand was seconds before.

"For heaven's sake!" screams Mrs. Weasley. "There is no need. I've had enough of this. Just because you're allowed to use magic now, you don't have to whip your wands out for every tiny little thing!"

"We were just trying to save a bit of time!" says Fred, hurrying forward to wrench the bread knife out of the table. "Sorry, Sirius, mate. Didn't mean to."

Harry and Sirius are both laughing; Mundungus has toppled backwards off his chair, and is swearing as he gets to his feet; Crookshanks gives an angry hiss and shoots off under the dresser, from where his large yellow eyes glow in the darkness; Regulus is chuckling, trying to suppress laugher, but restraining for Molly's sake and that of his own reputation.

"Boys," Mr. Weasley says, lifting the stew back into the middle of the table, "your mother's right, you're supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you've come of age."

"None of your brothers…!" Sirius tunes off Molly's rant. And only hears her berate the twins in the background despite the loud volume. Somehow she stops her tirade and they start eating in silence. The silence lasts for a few minutes, only hearing the chink of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as everyone settles down to their food. Then Mrs. Weasley turns to Sirius.

"I've been meaning to tell you, Sirius, there's something trapped in that writing desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and shaking. Of course, it could just be a Boggart, but I thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out." Regulus can't help but wonder why does she keeps trying if she knows as well as him that he won't listen to her, well, he certainly wouldn't. He also knows Sirius could deal with whatever it is by himself without problems, but that would mean being cooperative and acting as if he cared.

"Whatever you like," says Sirius indifferently.

"The curtains in there are full of Doxys, too." Mrs. Weasley goes on. "I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow."

"I look forward to it." says Sirius, sarcasm all over his voice.

Opposite to them, Tonks is entertaining Hermione and Ginny by transforming her nose between mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with a pained expression, her nose swells to a beak-like protuberance that resembles Snape's, shrinks to the size of a button mushroom and then sprouted a great deal of hair from each nostril. Mr. Weasley, Bill and Lupin are having an intense discussion about goblins. The younger of the Blacks isn't exactly participating but he is obviously interested in the issue.

"They're not giving anything away yet," says Bill. "I still can't work out whether or not they believe he's back. Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all. Keep out of it."

"I'm sure they'd never go over to You-Know-Who," says Mr Weasley, shaking his head. "They've suffered losses too; remember that goblin family he murdered last time, somewhere near Nottingham?"

"I think it depends what they're offered," says Lupin. "And I'm not talking about gold. If they're offered the freedoms we've been denying them for centuries they're going to be tempted."

"They won't take sides, counting that both sides are wizards." says Regulus, Lupin nods at his words.

"Have you still not had any luck with Ragnok, Bill?"

"He's feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment," says Bill, "he hasn't stopped raging about the Bagman business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up, those goblins never got their gold from him, you know."

A gale of laughter from the middle of the table drowns the rest of Bill's words. Fred, George, Ron and Mundungus are rolling around in their seats. Mundungus is explaining a joke stemming from one of his many dodgy business and the children are laughing. Molly invariably, feels the need to straighten things up.

"Beg pardon, Molly," says Mundungus at once, wiping his eyes and winking. "But, you know, Will nicked 'em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I wasn't really doing nothing wrong."

"I don't know where you learned about right and wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a few crucial lessons," says Mrs. Weasley coldly. Fred and George bury their faces in their goblets of Butterbeer; George is hiccoughing. For some reason, Mrs. Weasley throws a very nasty look at Sirius before getting to her feet and going to fetch a large rhubarb crumble for pudding. Harry looks curiously at Sirius.

"Molly doesn't approve of Mundungus," says Sirius in an undertone. "Well, neither does Regulus, but their reasons couldn't be more different."

"How come he's in the Order?" Harry says, very quietly.

"He's useful," Sirius mutters. "Knows all the crooks, well, he would, seeing as he's one himself. But he's also very loyal to Dumbledore, who helped him out of a tight spot once. It pays to have someone like Dung around, he hears things we don't. But Molly thinks inviting him to stay for dinner is going too far. She hasn't forgiven him for slipping off duty when he was supposed to be tailing you. And my brother thinks that letting him go anywhere near the china is foolish. He thinks he is too interested in our trinkets."

After dinner Mr Weasley is leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed; Tonks is yawning widely, her nose now back to normal; Bill is leaning back in his chair; Mundungus is practically sleeping on the chair; Regulus is nursing a glass of whine, and staring at it; Molly is simply looking at Fred and George's unceasing chatter; Ron and Hermione are talking; and Ginny, who has lured Crookshanks out from under the dresser, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling Butterbeer corks for him to chase.

"Nearly time for bed, I think," says Mrs. Weasley with a yawn.

"Not just yet, Molly," says Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

The atmosphere in the room changes with the rapidity one associates with the arrival of Dementors. Were seconds before it was sleepily relaxed, it is now alert, even tense. A frisson has gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort's name. Lupin, who was about to take a sip of wine, lowers his goblet slowly, looking wary. Apart from Sirius, the only one who seems unaffected is his brother, who keeps looking at his glass.

"I did!" says Harry indignantly. "I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we're not allowed in the Order, so…"

"And they're quite right," says Mrs. Weasley. "You're too young." She is sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists clenched on its arms, every trace of drowsiness gone.

"Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?" asks Sirius. "Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happen…"

"Hang on!" interrupts George loudly.

"How come Harry gets his questions answered?" says Fred angrily.

"We've been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven't told us a single stinking thing!" says George.

"'_You're too young, you're not in the Order_'" says Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounds uncannily like his mother's. "Harry's not even of age!"

"It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's doing," says Sirius calmly, "that's your parents' decision. Harry, on the other hand…"

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply. The expression on her normally kind face looks dangerous. "You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?"

"Which bit?" Sirius asks politely, but with the air of a man readying himself for a fight.

"The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know." said Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words.

The children's heads swivel from Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though they were following a tennis rally. Ginny is kneeling amid a pile of abandoned Butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin's eyes are fixed on Sirius.

"I don't intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly," says Sirius. "But as he is the one who saw Voldemort come back" again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name "he has more right than most to…"

Regulus nods briefly, he agrees with his brother in that, and he doesn't think Molly is right in this particular matter. Whatever they do, Harry already knows too much. Of course, they can be both biased as they were never really treated like innocent children to begin with.

"He's not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!" says Mrs. Weasley. "He's only fifteen and…"

"And he's dealt with as much as most in the Order," says Sirius, "and more than some."

"No one's denying what he's done!" says Mrs. Weasley, her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her chair. "But he's still…"

"He's not a child!" said Sirius impatiently.

"He's not an adult either!" said Mrs. Weasley, the colour rising in her cheeks. "He's not James, Sirius!"

"I've got perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly," said Sirius coldly. Regulus shakes his head. If he was Molly, he'd back out. He knows all too well that tone means that he is already pissed. Molly sure can't expect Sirius to talk to Harry as if he was a baby; he wouldn't do it to any child much less and adolescent fifteen years old.

"I'm not sure you are!" says Mrs. Weasley. "Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!"

"What's wrong with that?" says Harry.

"What's wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him!" says Mrs. Weasley, her eyes still boring into Sirius. "You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!"

"Meaning I'm an irresponsible godfather?" demands Sirius, his voice rising, he is about to explode.

"Meaning you have been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and…"

"We'll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!" says Sirius loudly.

"Arthur!" says Mrs. Weasley, rounding on her husband. "Arthur, back me up!"

Mr. Weasley does not speak at once. He takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly on his robes, not looking at his wife. Only when he has replaced them carefully on his nose does he reply.

"Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in, to a certain extent, now that he is staying at Headquarters."

"Yes, but there's a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!"

"Personally," says Lupin quietly, looking away from Sirius at last, as Mrs. Weasley turns quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally, "I think it better that Harry gets the facts… not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture from us, rather than a garbled version from… others." that sounds reasonable, but Molly can be very stubborn.

"Well," says Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that does not come, "well… I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart…"

"He's not your son," says Sirius quietly.

"He's as good as," says Mrs. Weasley fiercely. "Who else has he got?"

"He's got me!"

"Yes," says Mrs. Weasley, her lip curling, "the thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?" Regulus' face hardens at the cruel comment that isn't even meant for him. His eyes are two knifes of ice that glare at Mrs Weasley; angered at her pretentious assumption. Sirius starts to rise from his chair. His brother motions with his hand for him to sit back down, but he ignores him.

"Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry," says Lupin sharply, and adds. "Sirius, sit down." Mrs. Weasley's lower lip is trembling. Sirius sinks slowly back into his chair, his face white.

"I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this," Lupin continues "he's old enough to decide for himself."

"I want to know what's been going on." Harry says at once, not looking at Mrs. Weasley.

"Very well," said Mrs Weasley, her voice cracking. "Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, I want you out of this kitchen, now." There was instant uproar. Protest filled the room.

"We're of age!" Fred and George bellow together.

"Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!" says Ron hotly. "Won't, won't you?"

"Course I will." Harry says after a few seconds.

"Fine!" shouts Mrs. Weasley. "Fine! Ginny, BED!"

They can hear Ginny raging and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs, and when she reaches the hall Mrs. Black's ear-splitting shrieks are added to the din. The younger of the Blacks rolls his eyes. Lupin hurries off to the portrait to restore calm. It is only after he has returned, closing the kitchen door behind him and taking his seat at the table again, that Sirius speaks.

"OK, Harry… what do you want to know?" Harry takes a deep breath and asks _that question_.

"Where's Voldemort?" he says, ignoring the renewed shudders and winces at the name. "What's he doing? I've been trying to watch the Muggle news, and there hasn't been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything.

"That's because there haven't been any funny deaths yet," says Sirius, "not as far as we know, anyway… and we know quite a lot."

"More than he thinks we do, anyway," says Lupin.

"How come he's stopped killing people?" Harry asks.

"Because he doesn't want to draw attention to himself." says Sirius. "It would be dangerous for him. His comeback doesn't come off quite the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up."

"Or rather, you messed it up for him." says Lupin, with a satisfied smile.

"How?" Harry asks, perplexed. Regulus is amazed as how naïve the skinny boy can be, with all he apparently he has gone trough. Although, if he has been under Molly's wing for so long, it might not be all that strange.

"You weren't supposed to survive!" says Sirius. "Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to know he'd come back. But you survived to bear witness."

"And the very last person he wanted alerted to his return the moment he got back was Dumbledore," says Lupin. "And you made sure Dumbledore knew at once."

"How has that helped?" Harry asks.

"Are you kidding?" says Bill incredulously. "Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever scared of!"

"Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort returned." says Sirius.

"So, what's the Order been doing?" says Harry, looking around at them all.

"Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort can't carry out his plans," says Sirius.

"How d'you know what his plans are?" Harry asks quickly, as if afraid of a time-out.

"Dumbledore's got a shrewd idea," says Lupin, "and Dumbledore's shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate."

"So what does Dumbledore reckon he's planning?"

"Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again," says Sirius. "In the old days he had huge numbers at his command: witches and wizards he'd bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard him planning to recruit the giants; well, they'll be just one of the groups he's after. He's certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen Death Eaters." Sirius' brother shifts uncomfortably on his chair.

"So you're trying to stop him getting more followers?"

"We're doing our best," says Lupin.

"How?"

"Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard," said Bill. "It's proving tricky, though."

"Why?"

"Because of the Ministry's attitude," says Tonks. "You saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back, Harry. Well, he hasn't shifted his position at all. He's absolutely refusing to believe it's happened."

"But why?" says Harry desperately. "Why's he being so stupid? If Dumbledore…"

"Ah, well, you've put your finger on the problem" says Mr. Weasley with a wry smile. "Dumbledore."

"Fudge is frightened of him, you see" says Tonks sadly.

"Frightened of Dumbledore?" says Harry incredulously.

"Frightened of what he's up to." says Mr. Weasley. "Fudge thinks Dumbledore's plotting to overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister for Magic."

"But Dumbledore doesn't want…"

"Of course he doesn't." says Mr. Weasley. "He's never wanted the Minister's job, even though a lot of people wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. Fudge came to power instead, but he's never quite forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the job."

"Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice," says Lupin. "But it seems he's become fond of power, and much more confident. He loves being Minister for Magic and he's managed to convince himself that he's the clever one and Dumbledore's simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it."

"How can he think that?" says Harry angrily. "How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up, that I'd make it all up?"

"Because accepting that Voldemort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope with for nearly fourteen years," says Sirius bitterly. "Fudge just can't bring himself to face it. It's so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore's lying to destabilise him."

"The fact is that he's a self-centred fool." Harry turns towards Regulus, he hasn't talked yet and for a moment he thinks that it is Sirius talking again. "He's always been, and always will be. He's as incapable of facing the fact that he imprisoned an innocent man as of facing that the Dark Lord's back."

"You see the problem," says Lupin. "While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort it's hard to convince people he's back, especially as they really don't want to believe it in the first place. What's more, the Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they're calling Dumbledore's rumour-mongering, so most of the wizarding community are completely unaware any things happened, and that makes them easy targets for the Death Eaters if they're using the Imperius Curse."

"But you're telling people, aren't you?" says Harry, looking around. "You're letting people know he's back?" They all smile humourlessly.

"Well, as everyone thinks I'm a mad mass-murderer and the Ministry's put a ten thousand Galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?" says Sirius restlessly.

"And I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community," says Lupin. "It's an occupational hazard of being a werewolf."

"Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off," says Sirius, "and it's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them. And my brother has several issues that make things a little bit difficult for people to listen to him; he has exactly the same credibility I have."

"We've managed to convince a couple of people, though," says Mr. Weasley. "Tonks here, for one: she's too young to have been in the Order of the Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage. Kingsley Shacklebolt's been a real asset, too; he's in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he's been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet."

"But if none of you are putting the news out that Voldemorts back…" Harry begins.

"Who says none of us are putting the news out?" says Sirius. "Why do you think Dumbledore's in such trouble?

"What d'you mean?"Harry asks.

"They're trying to discredit him," says Lupin. "Didn't you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true; he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They've demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot, that's the Wizard High Court, and they're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too."

"But Dumbledore says he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog Cards," says Bill, grinning.

"It's no laughing matter," says Mr. Weasley sharply. "If he carries on defying the Ministry like this he could end up in Azkaban, and the last thing we want is to have Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore's out there and wise to what he's up to he's going to go cautiously. If Dumbledore's out of the way, well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field."

"But if Voldemort's trying to recruit more Death Eaters it's bound to get out that he's come back, isn't it?" asked Harry desperately.

"Voldemort doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors, Harry" says Sirius. "He tricks, jinxes and blackmails them. He's well-practised at operating in secret."

"He knows that those who could be interested in joining will come to him; he has no need of campaigning to get new Death Eaters." adds Regulus. Harry has again the impression that is Sirius speaking again.

"In any case, gathering followers is only one thing he's interested in." says Sirius. "He's got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he's concentrating on those for the moment."

"What's he after apart from followers?" Harry asks swiftly. Sirius and Lupin exchange the most fleeting of looks before Sirius answers.

"Stuff he can only get by stealth." When Harry continues to look puzzled, Sirius says, "Like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time."

"When he was powerful before?"

"Yes."

"Like what kind of weapon?" says Harry. "Something worse than the Avada Kedavra?"

"That's enough!" Mrs. Weasley speaks from the shadows beside the door. Harry hadn't noticed her return from taking Ginny upstairs. Her arms are crossed and she looked furious. "I want you in bed, now. All of you," she adds, looking around at Fred, George, Ron and Hermione. The Blacks roll their eyes.

"You can't boss us" Fred began.

"Watch me," snarls Mrs. Weasley. She is trembling slightly as she looks at Sirius. "You've given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway."

"Why not?" says Harry quickly. "I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight."

"No." It is not Mrs. Weasley who speaks this time, but Lupin. "The Order is comprised only of overage wizards," he says. "Wizards who have left school," he adds, as Fred and George open their mouths. "There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you… I think Molly's right, Sirius. We've said enough."

Sirius shrugs and does not argue. Mrs. Weasley beckons imperiously to her sons and Hermione. One by one they stand up and Harry, recognising defeat, follows suit. Molly turns to the adults in the kitchen.

"What part of only telling him what he needs to know didn't you understand?" yells Molly at no one in particular but looking Sirius closely.

"Come on Molly, the kids had the right to know something." says Tonks, Molly glares at her.

"They already knew something!"

"Please, Molly, we haven't told them much, just what they needed to." says Arthur trying to be reasonable.

"And you Sirius," says turning to the aforementioned man. "you are supposed to care for him, not trying to enrol him in the order!" Sirius looks at her with a raised eyebrow, and cocks his head provocatively.

"I do damn care. But I don't try to fool myself. Do you think they would've stayed quiet and nice if you had kept them in the dark for much longer?" he snarls. "They would've gone to absurd ends to get answers, done something foolish when we are not around to watch after them; something _dangerous_, Molly. They've done it already too many times! They have to be conscious of what we are facing here. Not just some phantasmagorical taboo they hear hushed rumours about! I won't say I know them well, but I know that keeping them ignorant will backfire on us. Give it time."

"Then it is the job of responsible adults to keep them safe!" she shouts angrily.

"Molly, you are going to loose your voice, and my ears are aching." and then Sirius raises. "and I'm going to have a hell of a migraine if I don't stop hearing your ranting." he says before he leaves, leaving a very surprised and angry Molly behind. The room remains silent for a while, then Molly talks again.

"He's incredible, trying to tell me how to raise my own children…" but she never gets to quite finish her sentence.

"I think he's right." she turns towards the voice, and sees it belongs to Regulus. "Children aren't stupid. Children are children. And they need to be talked to, and listened to. The consequences of doing otherwise are dreadful for any parent. Potter isn't a child, either way. You just have to look at his eyes to know; too many disappointments.

Without another word he follows his brother out of the room, headed presumably, towards his room.

* * *

1 Sirius is taking about cancer, which his family is genetically prone to. It is the reason why while wizards are normally long-lived, far more than muggles, his family die at ages that would not be unusual, were they muggles, but for a wizard mean they die young, from a quick fulminating illness.


	11. Chapter 10: Battle To The House

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Battle to the House**

The next morning Mrs Weasley recruits all of the current residents of the house to tackle the old drawing room. They had left it for when all the bedrooms had been properly cleansed. The drawing room is currently occupied by the Weasley children, Harry, Hermione, Mrs Weasley and Sirius. They are supposed to start one of Mrs Weasley cleaning sessions in brief; the purpose of this one is trying to remove the Doxies of the curtains.

The drawing room was at one time exquisite, with large windows overlooking the street in front of the house, a large fireplace flanked by two ornate glass-fronted cabinets, and exquisite paper of a muted-blue covering the walls. A grand ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, but besides years worth of cobwebs it doesn't appear to be suffering any other major problems. At least it won't be falling on their heads any time soon.

Sirius bends over the old furniture to examine a locked cabinet that stands near the window and is shaking slightly when Molly addresses him.

"Well, Molly, I'm pretty sure this is a Boggart," says Sirius, peering through the keyhole, "but perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a look at it before we let it out. Knowing my mother, it could be something much worse."

"Right you are, Sirius." says Mrs. Weasley. They are both speaking in carefully light, polite voices that tell whoever is listening quite plainly that neither has forgotten their disagreement of the night before.

The sound of the loud bell from downstairs is followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails that come associated with Mrs Black portrait. "I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!" says Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying out of the room. He thunders down the stairs as Mrs. Black's screeches echo up through the house once more.

"Stains, of dishonour, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth…!"

After a few minutes of struggle and a whole book of insults thrown at each other Sirius manages to shut the curtains over the portrait. He walks down the hall to the main door, and starts unlocking all the devices that have been placed on the door. He opens it forcefully to reveal Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Hestia's just relieved me, so she's got Moody's Cloak now, thought I'd leave a report for Dumbledore…" Sirius nods absentmindedly.

"Yes, yes, come in."

Kingsley is lead to the parlour close to the front door in the ground floor, they shouldn't be disturbed by anyone. They are there until midday, talking and discussing Order business. Basically it involves putting Sirius up to date with all the progress, or lack of it, so he may tell Dumbledore when he comes around. That and telling him every time someone will not be able to make it to a watch so he may reschedule the roosters, or hunt for an available substitute in a short amount of time. Then the doorbell rings again, and the shrieks of Mrs Black fill the house with all their disagreeable nature.

"I'm going to see who I have to strangle this time." mutters Sirius as a farewell to Shakebolt, and he heads towards the hall, followed by the black man. After shutting the old hag down yet again, Sirius opens the door; and comes to face Mundungus carrying a big pile of cauldrons.

"Hi" says the short man as he leaves the cauldrons on the floor. Sirius closes the door behind him silently. "Thank you for lettin'me pass."

"What do you want Dung?" asks Sirius tiredly. The man fidgets with his robes.

"I was wonderin' if I could leave 'ese trinkets 'ere. Only for a day or two…" they can hear stomping on the kitchen stairs.

"We are not running a hideout for stolen goods!" yells Molly as she heads towards Mundungus, like a bull upon seeing a red rag. "This is incredible! Your behaviour is completely irresponsible, as if we haven't got enough to worry about without you dragging stolen cauldrons into the house!" Mrs Weasley's shrieks awaken Mrs Black, but they all seem to ignore them for the moment.

"Molly, it'll be jus' a coupa' days!" they can hear the banging of a door upstairs and loud footsteps echo coming down the main staircase.

"What on earth is this racket?!" says Regulus as he appears in the hall. He's showed up because they aren't being precisely quiet. But before Molly's had the chance to start her campaign and plead her case against Mundungus, Regulus notices the man himself and the stolen goods, and his face hardens. "Get those out of this house."

He says authoritatively, motioning to the cauldrons. He, unlike Molly, isn't yelling, his voice hasn't raised a notch, but his face is cold, inexpressive and his eyes shoot off venom. Mundungus looks up to Sirius looking for support, and he simply shrugs. He is not interfering, clearly. The shrieks of the portrait are the only noise to be heard.

"Really, it'll be jus' a coupla'…"

"Out of my house." says as he points to the door.

"No need to, mate, really, I jus'…"

"Get out!" and then turns to his brother. "For Merlin's Beard Sirius, help me here!" Sirius shrugs.

"It's you the one who's bothered by it." Regulus then turns back to Mundungus who stands still, trying bring his case forth.

"Please, jus' 'til…"

"I said out of this house!" his voice raising as they have never heard him do before. Even Molly looks surprised. Well, Sirius doesn't but he is his brother after all. Mundungus moves hesitantly towards the door and starts picking his stuff up, but it is clearly not fast enough. "Now!"

Mundungus leaves the house reluctantly. Once he has left the only remaining noise Mrs Black's shrieks.

"Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers…" all Sirius does is ignore her for once and heads towards the stairs.

"Hey! What about mother?" asks Regulus. Sirius turns around.

"What do you mean; _'What about mother'_?" he says in a foul mood. "You woke her up, now you shut her up." and he returns to the drawing room, leaving to his brother the task, in which he obviously succeeds because only minutes later the yelling comes to a halt.

::::::::::::::

Sirius stands on the door frame and looks at the children. They are joking among them, clearly not doing what they've been appointed to anymore and totally unaware of his presence.

Their attention has been turned to the tapestry that occupies the entire north wall. It is immensely old, it is faded and the Doxys had gnawed it in places. Nevertheless, the golden thread with which it is embroidered still glints brightly enough to show proudly a sprawling family tree dating back to the Middle Ages, which he, having a good eyesight, can even faintly trace the outlines from afar. The large words at the very top of the tapestry read: _The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Toujours pur_. He has not seen nor paid attention to that particular family relic in a long, long time.

"Wow" says George as Harry and the others get closer to it.

"Couldn't have said it better" adds Fred.

"Who wants a family tree?" says Ron "It's good for nothing" he can, from the door and with her back turned, feel Hermione roll her eyes, and she's probably about to answer him but Harry talks first.

"Sirius is not on there!" says with his gaze fixed on the tapestry.

"I used to be there." says Sirius finally, walking into the room. The children jump and turn towards him, surprised, he walks across the room to where the tapestry hangs the length of the wall. "There." he repeats pointing at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a cigarette burn. "My sweet old mother blasted me off after I ran away from home."

"You ran away from home?" asks Harry disbelieving.

"When I was about sixteen." says Sirius. "I'd had enough."

"Where did you go?" asks Harry, staring at him.

"Your dad's place." says Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad's in the school holidays, and when I was seventeen I got a place of my own. My Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold… he's been wiped off here, too, that's probably why… anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."

"But… why did you…?"

"Leave?" Sirius smiles bitterly and runs his fingers through his long hair, which has come loose, again. "Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal… my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them… that's him. "Sirius jabs a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name _'Regulus Black'_. A date of birth, followed the date of death, some fifteen years previously. The children look surprised at the second one. They looked up at Sirius almost immediately. "He is younger than me" says Sirius "and was always a much better son, as I was constantly reminded."

"But he didn't die." says Harry pointing to the dates below the name.

"Well, of course, but that's a long story." says Sirius.

"We have time for long stories" says Hermione, curious as she is; she always wants to know everything.

"All this started almost seventeen years ago" says slowly. "stupid idiot… when he joined the Death Eaters."

"You're kidding!" says Harry shell-shocked. "It can't be true! A Death Eater?"

"Come on, Harry, haven't you seen enough of this house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?" says Sirius testily.

"Were, were your parents Death Eaters as well?"

"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the wizarding race, getting rid of Muggleborns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone, either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colours, who thought he had the right idea about things… they got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up at first."

"If he was a Death Eater, how come he's here, at the Order Headquarters?"

"As I said, he was always a fool, and arrogant and overbearing as well. He got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."

"Then, how did he survive?" asks Hermione.

"He came back, crawling and begging for forgiveness and help. And I wanted to give him a hand, a hand to his neck." he mumbles. "I helped him, but that was a long ago. He offered information in exchange." adds more quietly. "The tapestry was fooled, and the Death Eaters too."

"But… a real Death Eater?" asks Harry still surprised. Sirius does one of his bark-like laughs.

"Yes. Have you ever wondered why he never rolls up his sleeves?" Harry looks at him oddly.

"Because he has the Dark Mark?" answers Hermione instead of Harry. Sirius shakes his head.

"Let's put it another way… Have you ever wondered why he barely uses his left hand?" Harry shrugs.

"Because… he has the Mark?" he answers tentatively.

"No, because he doesn't have the mark anymore rather, of course that he doesn't have half the arm either." adds as he tilts his head sideways. Harry makes a face. "Yes, it is rather disgusting."

"Lunch!" calls Mrs. Weasley's voice.

She is holding her wand high in front of her, balancing a huge tray loaded with sandwiches and cake on its tip. She is very red in the face and still looked angry over the confrontation with Mundungus. The children move over to her, but Harry remains with Sirius, who bends closer to the tapestry, examining it.

"I haven't looked at this for years. There's Phineas Nigellus… my great-great-grandfather, see?… least popular Headmaster Hogwarts ever had… and Araminta Meliflua… cousin of my mother's… tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal… and dear Aunt Elladora… she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays… of course, any time the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn't on here."

"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asks, surprised but at the same time pleased.

"Oh, yeah, her mother Andromeda was my favourite cousin." says Sirius, examining the tapestry closely. "No, Andromeda's not on here either, look…"

He points to another small round burn mark between two notorious names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"Andromeda's sisters are still here because they made lovely, respectable pureblood marriages, but Andromeda married a Muggleborn, Ted Tonks, so…" Sirius mimes blasting the tapestry with a wand and laughs sourly. A double line of gold embroidery links Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy, and a single vertical gold line from their names leads to the name Draco.

"You're related to the Malfoys!" Harry explains.

"The pureblood families are all interrelated." says Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited; there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed. But there's no point looking for them on here, if ever a family was a bunch of blood traitors it's the Weasleys.

"Lestrange…" Harry says aloud, looking at the name beside where Andromeda should be.

"They're in Azkaban." says Sirius shortly. Harry looks at him curiously. "Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch junior," says Sirius, in the same brusque voice. "Rodolphus's brother Rabastan was with them, too."

"You never said she was your…"

"Does it matter if she's my cousin?" snaps Sirius. "As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family. She's certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming into Azkaban. Do you think I'm proud of having a relative like her?"

"Sorry," says Harry quickly, "I didn't mean, I was just surprised, that's all…"

"It doesn't matter, don't apologise," Sirius mumbles. He turns away from the tapestry. "I don't like being back here," he says, staring across the drawing room. "I never thought I'd be stuck in this house again. It's ideal for Headquarters, of course…" Sirius says. "My father put every security measure known to wizardkind on it when he lived here. It's unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call… as if they'd ever have wanted to. And now Dumbledore's added his protection, you'd be hard put to find a safer house anywhere. Dumbledore is Secret Keeper for the Order, you know, nobody can find Headquarters unless he tells them personally where it is, that note Moody showed you last night, that was from Dumbledore…" Sirius gives a short, bark-like laugh. "If my parents could see the use their house was being put to now… well, my mother's portrait should give you some idea." He scowls for a moment, then sighs. "I wouldn't mind if I could just get out occasionally and do something useful. I've asked Dumbledore whether I can escort you to your hearing, as Snuffles, obviously, so I can give you a bit of moral support, what do you think? Don't worry…" Sirius says when he notices his concern. "I'm sure they'll clear you; it is specified in the International Statute of Secrecy that you're allowed to use magic to save your own life."

"But if they do expel me," says Harry quietly and worriedly, "can I come back here and live with you?"

"We'll see." says Sirius smiling sadly, not having the courage to deny him outright.

"I'd feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn't have to go back to the Dursley's" Harry presses.

"They must be bad if you prefer this place," says Sirius gloomily.

"Hurry up, you two, or there won't be any food left," Mrs. Weasley calls.

Sirius heaves another great sigh, casts a dark look at the tapestry, and then he and Harry go to join the others. After the brief lunch, they go back to their cleaning tasks. It is a job that requires a lot of concentration, as many of the objects in there seem very reluctant to leave their dusty shelves.

Sirius cleans through the various trinkets with his usual viciousness. He waves the long wand in harsh sharp moves as he forces the various objects to leaves their places. He is removing a specially packed shelf when he feels pain shoot up his right arm, as diminutive steel teeth sink into the skin of the back of his hand. He curses under his breath as he pries the silver snuffbox open. It is bad bite and within seconds his bitten hand develops an unpleasant crusty covering like a tough brown glove.

"It's OK," he says, examining the hand with interest before tapping it lightly with his wand and restoring its skin back to normal, "must be Wartcap powder in there." He throws the box aside into the sack where they are depositing the debris from the cabinets, and Mundungus will probably steal later on. Although this time it is George who smuggles it out of the room.

Sometime after the incident with the Wartcap powder Regulus appears briefly, with the excuse of checking something or other, and spends around half an hour taking trinkets out of the cabinets, looking closely at them and placing them back in their place as dirty as they had been before. Sirius looks intently at him once or twice, feeling the mixed reaction of increasing amusement and rising temper.

"You know Regulus, cleaning usually consist in removing an object, removing the dust from said object and placing it back where it belongs, and you are missing the _dusting_ part."

"You generally miss the _placing it back_ part." Regulus answers testily. But soon after, when he tries to leave he is less than gently held up by Sirius, reminding him of his appointment with the feather-duster.

"Regulus! You stay and clean!" yells Sirius across the room as his brother heads towards the door.

"Sorry, I've got a lame arm!" says the younger one without even stopping to look back. Sirius follows him and catches up with him by the door.

"The only thing you have that it's lame is your excuse." he says holding his shoulder in a tight bruising grip. And seeing no way out he stays, always under the distrustful gaze of Harry and the Weasley brood, who can't quite forget what Sirius just told them. _He was a Death Eater_. Somehow, Harry at least seems to arrive to the conclusion that if Sirius trusts him to a point, so will he.

They find an unpleasant-looking silver instrument, something like a many-legged pair of tweezers, which scuttle up Harry's arm like a spider when he picks it up, and attempts to puncture his skin. Sirius, seeing it happen, seizes it and smashes it quickly and precisely with a heavy book entitled _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_.

"Look!" says Sirius in a very loud, almost playful tone. "I just found a real use for the _Wizarding_ _Genealogy_!"

"Really, besides furnishing mothers with fodder for memorization exercises?" Regulus seems remotely interested. The fact is that they both know that book by heart sine a very early age. Which is a lamentable waste of space.

They also find a musical box that emits a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and they all find themselves becoming curiously weak and sleepy, until Ginny, who is the closest, has the sense to slam the lid shut. A number of ancient seals have been gathering dust in their boxes; and in another dusty box lingers an Order of Merlin, First Class, that had been awarded to Sirius's grandfather for _'services to the Ministry_'.

"It means he gave them a load of gold," says Sirius contemptuously, throwing the medal into the rubbish sack. Regulus sighs as he watches him do that.

"Really Sirius, I don't see the reason for your impulsive need of ransacking this house!" he pronounces exasperated, he has been trying to stop his brother from throwing out everything short of the beds. Sirius looks at him contemptuously too, his raised eyebrow flying high. "These objects have a history, and whether you like it or not, it is _our_ history. Will you please, stop throwing everything just because?" Sirius makes a show of ignoring him, but doesn't stop him from removing the plaque from the sack.

It does become harder to throw things out with his brother near, because he prefers to clean things rather than throw them away. Several times Regulus has to remove something from the improvised bin. When Sirius throws a large golden ring bearing the Black crest, Regulus seems to be about to have a seizure, and muttering under his breath removes it and gives it back Sirius. The taller man looks at him carefully.

The ring is gold and ancient; it is a big regal-looking seal too. The top, engraved with the crest is made of dark lapislazuli stone and has two small diamonds where the stars of the crest should be. Over the rim, symbols and runic numbers cover a small joint that it shows the ring opens over itself.

"It's yours Sirius." says Regulus. "Besides, it is the seal of the archives too, remember?" Sirius sighs when he places it in his poked.

"It was our father's," explains Sirius to Harry, as he throws another trinket at the bin, quietly. "He seems quite fond of all this trinkets, seems like he suddenly adores father." Ron looks at the younger brother with a funny face.

"It wasn't only father's!" says Regulus from across the room. "It was grandfather's, and great-grandfather's, and great-great-grandfather's before him…"

"I get the idea, don't worry. I think it is called it being hereditary; or a family heirloom, whatever you prefer." snaps Sirius.

"It sounds a bit like Malfoy." comments the red-headed when Regulus is turned around, Harry nods deep in thought. Sirius only chuckles humourlessly.

"Sharing a room with Malfoy for a time would have that effect on some people." he says this extremely loud, so everyone hears it, his brother too. Regulus rolls his eyes.

"I did not share a room with him!" says the younger brother in exasperation. "Dorms are usually for five people, and besides that there is that an age gap of six years wouldn't make it precisely easy for us to share!" from his tone of voice only you can safely assume that he doesn't like Malfoy either.

"I was a Gryffindor!" says Sirius in an indignant tone. "What I'm supposed to know about Slytherin's organization?" Regulus turns to face his brother.

"For God's sake! The same as everywhere else! I was in Slytherin not in an orgy!" the twins find themselves rolling around in laughter, as the little ones snicker. Sirius smirks.

"One might assume." - Regulus turns around to face him and feels confronted by the mocking smile Sirius is giving him, so he throws the cleaning rag to his face and strides energetically out of the room.

"I hate you!" says as he exits the room. "I hate you so much!" Molly is looking at the place were Regulus used to be astonished, and Harry, Hermione and Ron are looking a bit worried. On the other hand, the twins are having trouble breathing as they are in gales of laughter.

"Well, that is affection around here." he comments sourly before going back to cleaning.

"Do you think that if I leave like he did I'll get out of cleaning duty?" whispers Fred to George's ear, unfortunately Sirius does hear. He comes up from their back and looms over them.

"No, because the only reason I'm not forcing him to clean is because now I have no one stopping me from throwing anything." says in a conspiring whisper. At the same time he throws an aged and sealed diploma over his shoulder to land neatly in the sack.

"Your brother was in Slytherin?" says Ron, looking rather green. Sirius laughs.

"Yes, of course, like the entire family." he says nonchalantly.

"So, he's pretty much like Snape? A Slytherin, a Death Eater and a desertor…" asks Harry innocently.

"No. The main difference is that Snape must go back to Voldemort, and Regulus can't. They hate him more than me! I'm a blood traitor, he's merely traitor to the cause, which is ironically worse. I deserve death, he apparently deserves a painful death." says Sirius.

"Ok, I get the idea."

"Just a tip." Sirius tells him winking at him. "It's not wise to compare people with Snape, they might take offense."

::::::::::::::

They spend the following days working and cleaning the old rooms, trying to remove the dust of almost a decade from the shelves. The drawing room takes three days to decontaminate completely. Finally, the only undesirable things left in it are the tapestry of the Black family tree, which after some yelling between the brothers, Regulus had managed to convince Sirius it wasn't completely necessary to remove, and the rattling writing desk. Moody had not dropped by Headquarters yet, so they could not be sure what was inside it. As for the tapestry, as apparently there is another Permanent Sticking Charm to it, trying to take it down is useless either way.

They move from the drawing room to a small dining room on the ground floor where they find spiders as large as saucers lurking in the dresser. Ron, Sirius notices amusedly, promptly leaves the room to make a cup of tea and does not return for an hour and a half. The china in the room, despite Sirius' best efforts to get rid of it, is polished and replaced. It is an enormous collection of all kind of sets of dishes, silverware glassware and crystal, all bearing the Black crest and motto in various styles and designs favoured at different points of the family history.

They also find scattered all over the house old photographs, their silver frames tarnished, that Regulus collects and places in a box, after removing the frames, that is kept locked under key in his room; the only way of keeping Sirius from throwing them. Some of the pictures are almost a century old, others, because Regulus remembers them, are around sixty to twenty years old, and are those of their parents and uncles.

In truth what they do is not cleaning, it is a waging war on the house, which is putting up a very good fight. A lot of times the twins complain about having no house elf. Once Sirius hears them and bursts out laughing. They look at him oddly.

"Of course the house had domestic elf, who would clean a house like this on it's own?" and after another bark-like laugh, he adds. "He was the bane of my existence as a child; he died sixteen years ago, around the time Regulus '_died'_. I suppose that after that, mother would have brought an elf of some other property to Grimmauld place, but it must have left after she died."

::::::::::::::

The doorbell rings almost constantly these days which is the cue for Sirius's mother to start shrieking again. Snape flits in and out of the house several times and Sirius does his best to avoid coming face to face, at risk of strangling him.

One night, after Snape dropped by that same afternoon, just before dinner Regulus Black enters the crowded kitchen vomiting insults and cursing under his breath, looking more than slightly mad. This causes Molly to look at him warily, but she had the common sense to say nothing. Sirius, on the other hand was slightly amused.

"The slimy bastard… greasy git." the insult volley causes Molly to almost have fit. "Now I know why he has such a big nose, to compensate for his lack of brains, otherwise, he wouldn't be able to balance himself long enough to walk!"

Hushed snickers can be heard in the kitchen. Most of them don't like him, and share his opinion. Although most would've thou thought they would get on well with Snape, with all their apparent common background, and obviously he doesn't.

"I swear…" says Regulus as he sits in front of his brother. "If he calls me _crippled_ one more time I'm going to hex him so badly, he'll end up in St Mungo unable to remember his name."

"Who's he talking about?" asks Harry to Ron whispering, but it is Regulus the one to answer.

"Snape." his voice is filled with old loathing. "If he calls me _that_ one more time I swear I'll smack his face so hard he'll have to pull the toothbrush up his arse to clean his teeth." a few scattered laughs can be heard.

"He hasn't got enough throwing hints during the meetings, now he has to make me loose my time to throw stupid insinuations of what he doesn't know!" he says hotly. "The only one that'll be crippled is him once I have removed that mountain that he calls nose with a spoon."

"Wouldn't be better to do it with an axe?" asks Arthur, a little amused at the young's man rant.

"No. Spoons do not have a blade." Sirius points out. "Therefore it will hurt more."

"There are a few things I still can do with a _bad_ hand, like poking someone's eyes out with it." he continues. Molly Weasley gives him a disapproving look as she serves dinner. "And somehow he tends to forget that I still have a good arm ready to strangle him single-handedly." says as he starts eating. But he is so mad that tries to stab a piece of meat with the fork, the result of which is having half the sauce out of the plate. Sirius smirks.

"I think you should calm down." He says, not even blinking. Regulus nods balefully and breaths deeply once or twice. "Your table manners are going down the drain."

The younger Black spends the entire dinner silent, he doesn't looks at anyone. Rather difficult considering he would _never_ eat with his head deep in his plate; and that is the only way someone with his height could avoid meeting anyone's eyes. After dinner, though, he rejoins the conversation again. Of course, the fact that Lupin is mocking Snape has nothing to do with it.

"Were not for Dumbledore, I would kill him with my own hands." says Sirius.

"But you wouldn't want to leave the students without such a great teacher as Professor Snape." comments Lupin teasinglywryly, earning himself the complaints from the children expressing their desire of getting rid of their current potions professor loudly.

"I would even teach the little parasites myself…" puts in Regulus, who let's face it has never been extremely predisposed towards children "…if by doing so I was allowed to kill Snape." Sirius sniggers.

"Hey, you could always take the Defence Against the Dark Arts class." suggests the older brother. "Of course that it wouldn't be defence against the Dark Arts if you taught that." Regulus ignores him.

"Do you think I have suicidal intentions? I wouldn't take that job in a thousand years." he responds instead. "It's a cursed position since forever."

"Not all the teachers of DADA have died." says Tonks.

"All but Remus apparently. And that is because he isn't human." says the younger brother.

"I'll take that as a compliment." says Remus amused.

"It wasn't an insult, I was being merely descriptive." corrects Regulus.

"Moody hasn't died either." stated Sirius.

"And he didn't even set a foot in a classroom." he says. "because being locked in your own trunk is that much better…"

"Lockhart is alive." someone says.

"Yes, and he lost all his memories." puts in Ron. Then the conversation deviates further into all the DADA teachers the concurrence can remember, and some they can't and their respective fates, so when the evening's over Regulus is in a fairly good mood. It doesn't mean he doesn't keep plotting against Snape in his idle moments.

Sometimes, however, the visitors stay to help. Tonks joins them for a memorable afternoon in which they find a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet, so out of way that nobody had taken notice before. She manages to kick it out in quite a record time, as apparently they had one settle in her parent's house some years back. Lupin, who often leaves for long periods to do Order work, helps them repair a grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts at passers-by. It starts while the children are nearby and they have to run for it. Sirius proclaims loudly that clumsy as Regulus is, he would never be able fix it. As for himself, he complains and curses when his borrowed wand doesn't quite behave and gives him trouble with a couple of complicated spells, so he steps out of the way and let Remus have a go at it when he was halfway trough. Mundungus redeems himself slightly in Mrs. Weasley's eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of purple robes that try to strangle him when he removes them from their wardrobe.

And in the meantime the whole house is tensely holding its breath.


	12. Chapter 11: Only In Passing

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – Only In Passing**

The night before Harry has to go to the Ministry for the hearing Sirius doesn't sleep at all. He doesn't even indulge in the mere thought of sleep, he doesn't even get to bed. He is up most of the night, sorting through old papers in his father's study, trying to keep his mind occupied. The truth is, he is terrified by the possibility that Harry may be declared guilty.

About four in the morning he gives up and prepares something for the early risers. Mr and Mrs Wealey make an appearance early, and she, still dressed in a quilted purple dressing gown, instantly busies preparing Harry's breakfast, without bothering to conceal that she is disposing of the coffee he made while he was waiting. Lupin comes down soon after, who by the kitchen's entrance runs into a tired-looking Tonks, just arrived from guard-duty at the Ministry. When the door suddenly opens and Harry appears behind it Mrs. Weasley to leaps to her feet immediately.

"Breakfast!" she says as she pulls out her wand and hurries over to the fire.

"M…m…morning, Harry." yawns Tonks. Her hair is blonde and curly this morning. "Sleep all right?"

"Yeah." says Harry.

"I've b - b - been up all night." she says, with another shuddering yawn. "Come and sit down..." She draws out a chair, knocking over the one beside it in the process. Sirius feels affectionate desperation at her clumsiness for a tad.

He disconnects partially from what's going on around him, he only keeps half of his attention in the conversation while he moodily reflects on the Ministry's stupidity as a whole, and his inner rant goes over exactly what would he tell to each ministerial arsehole if he ever had the chance to meet them. He vaguely hears Mrs Weasley fuss over Harry, and Tonks discuss Scrimgeour's suspicions with Remus; noticing with amusement how awfully nice they are with each other. His attention goes back to focus on the conversation when Arthur tries to reassure Harry regarding Amelia Bones. He doesn't know her, but he did know his brother Edgar.

"It'll all be over soon." Mr. Weasley says bracingly. "In a few hours' time you'll be cleared. The hearing's on my floor, in Amelia Bones's office. She's Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the one who'll be questioning you."

"Amelia Bones is OK, Harry." says Tonks earnestly. "She's fair, she'll hear you out." Harry nods, looking a bit dizzied.

"Don't lose your temper." says Sirius abruptly. He used to be a lawyer a long time ago. He knows what he is saying. And in a case as subjective as this one… appearances are extra important. Harry can't afford to look impetuous. "Be polite and stick to the facts." Harry nods again.

"The law's on your side." says Lupin quietly. "Even underage wizards are allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations." Mrs. Weasley goes trough fussing over his clothes and decides to tackle Harry's hair. She attacks his hair with a wet comb. She presses hard on the top of his head.

"Doesn't it ever lie flat?" she says desperately. Harry shakes his head. Sirius is tempted to laugh, but it wouldn't be an opportune moment. Molly clearly hasn't had enough contact with that hair to realise that it isn't a stylistic statement and that trying to comb it is an utter waste of time. James used to say it was a truth better accepted and wasn't worth grieving over.

They say their farewells and well-wishes to Arthur and Harry as they go:

"You'll be all right, Harry." says Tonks, patting him on the arm.

"Good luck" says Lupin. "I'm sure it will be fine."

"And if it's not." says Sirius grimly. "I'll see to Amelia Bones for you..." Harry smiles weakly at him.

::::::::::::::

When Regulus wakes up that morning and joins the cleaning squad the spirits are definitely down. He remembers soon enough that Potter ought to be at the Ministry by now, and that is probably the reason behind the brooding atmosphere.

What it is not as obvious though, is the reason behind the strange looks he is getting from the Weasley brats this early in the morning. He will admit to being quite paranoid, not as much as Moody, but paranoid to a more than reasonable standard. He knows, though, that the feeling of having lots of eyes burning a hole through his skull he has been getting all morning is perfectly justified.

It is this what, later that day, pushes Regulus to corner Sirius in an empty alcove, to try and put a finger on the reason that brought on this feeling that has been bothering him for days. Sirius, unfortunately seems to be the only person likely to have talked too much. Merlin knows the others wouldn't dare for fear of the matron Weasley's wrath.

"What exactly did you babble on to those brats?" he asks. "They keep staring as if I personally ended their favourite pet. They're looking at me funny."

"That's because you are funny." Sirius deadpans.

"I'm being serious here." says the younger brother, more than a little bit annoyed.

"I told them the truth." says Sirius impatiently.

"Which truth?"

"The truth of you being idiot and joining the Death Eaters." Regulus shakes his head and sighs deeply.

"Great." he says looking dejected. "That's just swell."

"They would have discovered it anyway." Sirius says unusually quietly.

"With Weasley's mania of keeping them in the dark? I highly doubt it." counters Regulus.

"They will come off it. Snape is their teacher." Sirius says, and this time it is reeking sarcasm.

"It better be that way, or else I'll kill you. It is damn annoying to be avoided as if I had some incurable disease." he says. "Not that I'd want their company."

::::::::::::::

When a few hours later, Harry returns from the Ministry, looking happier that he has looked in days, the whole house lets go of its breath at the happy news. The kitchen is packed with the attendants to the improvised celebratory party, and all that can be heard is "_congratulations!_", and "_They were bound to clear you_". On one side of the kitchen Fred, George and Ginny are doing a kind of war dance, and singing.

"He got off, he got off, he got off…"

"That's enough! Settle down!" Sirius hears Arthur shout, though he too is smiling. Mr Weasley then turns to the Black brothers, but addresses Sirius directly. "Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry…"

"What?" say Sirius and Regulus at the same time, looking a bit alarmed.

"He got off, he got off, he got off…" the voices of the twins are so loud that it becomes too difficult to hold a conversation.

"Be quiet you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on Level Nine, then they went up to Fudge's office together. I though Dumbledore ought to know." Arthur says almost in whispers so that he can't be overheard.

"Absolutely." says Sirius "We'll tell him, rest assured."

"Well, I'd better get going, there's a vomiting toilet waiting for me in Bethnal Green. Molly, I'll be late, I'm covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner…"

"He got off, he got off, he got off…" the enthusiastic celebration song goes on a bit longer.

"That's enough; Fred, George, Ginny!" says Mrs. Weasley. "Harry, dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast." He sits down with Ron and Hermione looking almost happy.

"HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF…"

::::::::::::::

Over the next few days, Sirius becomes moodier and surlier than before, avoiding everyone and talking less to everyone in general, and he starts spending increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother's room with Buckbeack. The reason remains unknown. But the only ones who seemed to realise at all are Harry, Remus, and obviously his brother.

It doesn't last that long though, and it is precisely because of the Weasley twins.

The Weasley twins have been trying to put their jokes to test with several members of the Order at Grimmauld Place all summer. Of course trying them on their mother would've been suicide, which pretty much ruled out Mr Weasley at once. The immediate target then was Professor Lupin to whom they still hold a slight grudge coupled with admiration because they were unable to prank him and wreak havoc in his class, like they do with all the other staff. They haven't been successful so far. Their focus shifted to Tonks. She fell for it on all fours, auror vigilance or not. She ended up steaming from her ears for a full day, but she just laughed about it, and that was that. The others are hardly regular fixtures to the meals, and even thinking of trying something on Moody is enough to have you sent to St Mungo for treatment.

Sirius though, is a whole another matter entirely. Sirius has the gift, if you can call it that of looking menacing right off the bat. The displays of the somewhat characteristic Black haughtiness make him look not all that approachable. Of course, whatever it was that cowed them initially, it wore out soon enough and they started attempting to get at him too. It was only fair. He's so far proved to be as good as Lupin at avoiding them and their tricks, making it look as if it was always by chance. Now, Sirius' got to admit that the twins are good, and so far has been having a grand time keeping them on their toes. They rather remind him of James, on those first months of their first year when he'd tried to get Sirius '_get that broom handle out of his ass_' and had pranked him endlessly; with little success too.

The twins eventually get tired of the pursuit and move on to another target. It should have given him a clue that something was up with their non-consensual product prank testing. They manage somehow to slip one of their inventions into Regulus's pumpkin juice, when their target is deeply engaged in the conversation going on among those working in the Ministry. He drinks it without really realising, much to the twins' glee.

It is some minutes later that he notices that Mrs Weasley is giving him truly alarmed looks, her eyes the size of saucers, her mouth hanging slightly open. He glances quickly around to find the conversation slowly dying down as they all shamelessly stare at him.

He tentatively brings his hands to his face, then his hair. He is not a fool and he knows if you aren't careful around the house you can end up being terribly humiliated. He _lives_ here. Everything seems alright, everything feels right. Suspicious, he conjures a mirror from an empty saucer.

He sighs whatever has been done to him affects exclusively hi eyes. They've have turned multi-coloured and the iris looks like a kaleidoscopic, with infinite colours spiralling endlessly in eyes that look twice as big as normal, with no pupil and no white. He inhales deeply, willing himself to calm down. Then he rolls his eyes, which makes him look even more crazed and starts cursing under his breath as he tries to get out of the room and away from all the stares he's receiving.

"Bloody bastard, I'm going to kill him when I find him…" Lupin is looking infinitely amused, and Regulus scowls at him. Tonks giggles. Which he doesn't find amusing, if this doesn't disappear it is not as if he can go to St Mungo. Because he can't.

"Oh, man. You fell for it with all four!" she crows. But he knows it wasn't her, he would've noticed.

"Anyone would have said that after growing up with him I would've learn to see him coming, but no…" Sirius is just then coming his way and stops short of bumping into him.

"Whoa! What exactly have you been smoking?" says nonchalantly. And for a blessed second it has the effect of having people staring at _him_ instead.

- I'm going to murder you, what kind of childish imbecile would still find this kind of thing funny I can't begin to..."

Sirius gives him a thorough once-over. He is starting to look suspiciously amused. Then grabs his chin and yanks upwards to look directly into his eyes. He shakes his head.

"Colour swapping pranks became boring by second year." he says nonchalantly. "It wasn't me. Sorry to disappoint" adds under his brother's persistent glaring. "Although I must admit that it's pretty well done."

The twins exchange a high-five, and Regulus feels irritated beyond what would be reasonable. The little brats are in various stages of chocking on their own air as they are trying to suffocate laughter. All except for the bushy-haired girl, who looks lost between feeling amused and look disapproving, and only manages to look scandalised.

"If I catch the idiot who's done this, I'll swear he'll regret it." He syas in his best menacing voice. Chuckles escape the twins' lips, and the bushy-haired girl looks at them with a deep frown. Their mother to looks at them suspiciously, and narrows her eyes while placing her hands on her hips, managing to look far more intimidating that her small height should allow.

"What have you done this time?" asks Mrs Weasley, which is completely rethorical given the given. Fred shrugs. "Do you think this is remotely funny?!"

"Do? Us?" he croons. "Nothing!" crows George. "We were just…"

"…testing a theory!"

"Fred and George!" shrieks Molly. "How dare you! Playing distasteful pranks in a house were you are nothing more than guests! You are going to your rooms now! You're grounded!" the twins' smiles fall and started to head towards their rooms, only to come back again as they realise it means no cleaning.

They are stopped by the sound of Regulus clearing his throat behind them.

"If you don't mind Mrs Weasley, I have a little job for these two." says with a self-rigeous smirk. "The hippogriff room is to be cleaned, and now I have two who have just volunteered to do so."

Their dejected look is so that Sirius wishes he had a camera.

"Oh and by the way, this does have an antidote or does it have to wear off?" he asks, apparently disinterested, as he is satring at his nails quite obviously. "Because if it is the later… I'm going to make you clean it with the hippogriff inside."

He is looking at them ominously now; and outright malicious. The twins looked at each other and blanch. He smirks satisfied at their reaction, although it probably means it'll mean running around with crazed eyes for a little while. He knows too that Weasley won't allow him to carry on with his threat.

"What are you waiting for? Get going!" he snaps. And Mrs Weasley doesn't protest their punishment.

"He's crueller than Snape" mutters George under his breath as they leave the kitchen.

"I couldn't have said it better." answers George. Looks after them like a hawk, his eyes spinning like crazy, and his lips pressed into a thin line, meaning that he isn't precisely happy.

Unfortunately, for the youngest of the Blacks, the joke not only has to wear off, but proves to be long-lasting. It is what happens with experimental products, they are _experimental_. He tries everything he can think of and still his crazed multi-coloured eyes stare back at him from the mirror, mocking him. The twins do not have an antidote developed, he checked. He has to spend half a week going around with crazy eyes, looking like he is drugged.

But it also has one positive effect. The whole incident seems to snap Sirius out of his dark mood, even seems to cheer him up. He is that way. Seeing others people struggle with something as humiliating as this lifts his spirits. Maybe because it compels him to be glad it isn't him.

Regulus would not call it being rude. It is not that, for most of his words are rather polite most time. It is the way he delivers them. So cutting. So biting. He knows that looking at it objectively he ought not to be peeved by his glee. Sirius is, quite sadly, unpleasant by principle. He does this to everyone everywhere. He makes no distinctions of gender, age, position, status, wealth, intelligence or looks. He can find reasons to mock anyone. He is very fair, really.

It lasts until after several days of stupid multi-coloured eyes even Sirius gets tired of them and all the giggling they produce and he decides to put and end to it.

"This is already becoming tiresome." he says one morning when he finds him alone in a room on the third floor. He motions for him to come closer. "Come here."

Regulus eyes him warily, a scowl his only answer. His mood in turn, has definitely not improved with this whole business. Sirius ignores all the menacing whatnot and inspects his brother's eyes. He is so very close while looking into them Regulus almost goes cross-eyed. Then he points his wand at his eyes, and he can feel Regulus tensing under the grasp he has on his arm. With a small purple spark from the tip of the his wand Regulus' eyes slowly reduce and go back to their normal dull grey.

"Better. The giggling was starting to give me headeaches." Sirius says flippantly.

"You knew how to fix it all along." He accuses, and Sirius simply shrugs non-chalantly, clears his throat, and then he hitches his usual debonair smile into place, looking positively smug, swirling around in one graceful, fluid movement.

::::::::::::::

The members of the Order come and go regularly, sometimes staying for meals, sometimes only for a few minutes of whispered conversation. The house has fallen into a rhythm of sorts with a busy silent consistence that weaves the time in the Order Headquarters. And soon enough the last days of summer are already there, with all the changes they're bound to bring with them.

The evening after the Hogwarts letters arrive, a party is celebrated at the kitchen of Grimmauld place. A scarlet banner hangs over the heavily laden table which reads: "_Congratulations Ron and Hermione, New Prefects_". Molly looks in a better mood than anyone has seen her all summer. The ones who are regulars at meals at Grimmauld Place are mostly there, even moody is there and he usually refuses to eat anything he doesn't cook himself.

"Oh, Alastor, I am glad you're here." tells him Mrs. Weasley brightly just when he arrives. "We've been wanting to ask you for ages "Could you have a look in the writing desk in the drawing room and tell us what's inside it? We haven't wanted to open it just in case it's something really nasty."

"No problem, Molly…" his eye swivells upwards and stares fixedly through the ceiling of the kitchen. "Drawing room…" he growls, as his bright blue pupil contracts. "Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it… yeah, it's a Boggart. Want me to go up and get rid of it, Molly?"

Sirius doesn't hear her response; he's to busy mentally rolling his eyes at her. Anyone could've known that. And if it hadn't been it would have been nothing any of them couldn't fix. They are from the Order damm it; that ought to count for something. But of course, arguing wasn't worth it. It never is.

After all the toasts and whatnot he ends up in one corner, with Remus and Tonks. Kingsley is there too.

"I was never a prefect myself." Tonks says brightly. Her hair is tomato red and waist-length today; could pass for Ginny's older sister. "My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities."

"Like what?" says Ginny.

"Like the ability to behave myself." says Tonks. Sirius is decidedly amused. A girly Hufflepuff girl is the last person you'd imagine misbehaving to any great extent… so damn innocent. Note the sarcasm. Still he notices too that if that was the only objection there was, that means that Tonks got top marks, just like he did, which is not a surprise as she is an auror.

"What about you, Sirius?" Ginny asks suddenly, thumping Hermione on the back, as she has almost chocked on her drink. He lets out one of his usual bark-like laughs.

"No one would have made me a prefect; I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge." he tells her.

"I think Dumbledore might have hoped I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends." Lupin says. "I need scarcely say that I failed dismally." Sirius bites his tongue before he is tempted to remind him that he did never truly _try_, and spent as much time as them thinking ingenious ways of stepping over the line.

"And you coz'?" asks Tonks to Regulus, who has been moping a bit and hasn't yet eaten anything. He simply smirks looking a bit superior.

"Yes, I was prefect." Sirius, who is feeling generous today, laughs.

"Yes, he was the good boy, in front of everyone. He was rather sneaky, did everything behind the teachers backs." He says. "He even made it to Head Boy." they all laugh. "But excuse if I point out that you weren't a saint."

"Who said you had to be one to be a prefect?" Regulus counters. "Look at Lupin."

"I still remember that time you got your ass landed in detention for telling Flitwick, with lots of detail, were should he put his _flick and swick_." Tonks chokes with a piece of potato, and then she keeps looking red because she can't stop laughing.

"Lily didn't like a bit to have to watch your detention." says Remus to Tonks quietly. "She was the Head Girl."

"Evans?" Regulus asks distractedly. Sirius just nods.

"Now, that one's good." says Tonks, still trying to control laugher.

"Watch it Pinky." says Regulus as a warning. "Although today should be kind of _Orangy _instead."

"Hardy har, har… Well, in my case they were far too busy trying to guess if when they though they were speaking with someone, couldn't it instead be me. I used to change my appearance every day back then. It is not until later that I settled for my natural looks and just changed the hair."

"Very honest of you," comments Regulus "half of the world would die just to have the chance to look somewhat different."

"It is not about that." she protests. "It is only that even when confusing people used to be fun, it became a problem that people could never recognise me because nobody knew how I looked. So I settled for nothing too drastic…" Regulus almost chokes, but Lupin smiles broadly at her. "Now people can tell who I am from afar. Truly, being a metamorphomagus is not all that's cracked up to be."

"Couldn't have it for the Auror Department to think the same as Sprout." Sirius snarks. "Who wants to be a prefect anyway? It's all fruitless duties and less time for yourself."

"It is supposed to be about serving the community." Remus scolds him, but he lacks conviction. "And the prefect bathrooms aren't bad." Sirius this time scowls at the mention of prefect's privileges.

"What I don't understand is… why Dumbledore didn't make Potter a prefect?" says Kingsley.

"He'll have had his reasons." replies Lupin circumspect.

"But it would've shown confidence in him. It's what I'd've done." persists Kingsley. "Specially with the Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days… It would've been a way of protecting him."

"He is accident prone." Lupin shrugs, although he knows that doesn't explain anything.

"Yeah, but Ron and Hermione get into as much trouble and are as responsible of it all as he is." Sirius counters, a bit disappointed in Harry's behalf. "And he is more active than Ron. It seems a bit cruel to me. Harry wants his approval right now. King's right, it was a wonderful way of showing it."

They all look a bit down with that. Of course that there might be a simple, nice explanation that could make it look al rosy, but who are they kidding. That's when Sirius catches Moody showing Harry something from the corner of his eye. He has been following him with his gaze from afar all evening, wandering the room from one corner to another, aimlessly, looking lost.

"What's that you've got there, Mad-Eye?" he raises his voice suddenly, causing Moody to startle a bit and turn towards him. And as he turns toward his old mentor he looses sight of Harry.

"The Original Order of the Phoenix." growls Moody as he shows him a very tattered, old wizarding photograph and taps it with the crooked index finger of his other hand. "Found it last night when I was looking for my spare Invisibility Cloak, seeing as Podmore hasn't had the manners to return my best one…" he grumbles.

Sirius throws it a quick glance and suddenly the other sounds in the room fade away, and he hears his heartbeat rush in his ears. He can feel the ghost of a breath over his shoulder and knows Regulus is looking.

A small crowd of people, some waving at him, others lifting their glasses, look back up at him. He can clearly see Moody in the picture. He was unmistakeable even then, though his hair was slightly less grey and his nose was intact. And then there is Dumbledore beside him looking as if the time didn't pass for him. Dedalus Diggle is on the other side. Marlene McKinnon is there too, with her wobbly curls and wry smile. He remembers her from school, she was in Ravenclaw. She was killed two weeks after that photo was taken. Her whole family was killed too. She was one of the first victims from the Order. He remembers the shock from when he was called in immediately after to cover up for her.

Then there are Frank and Alice Longbottom. And how cruel fate can be? He remembers Alice laughter and her cheekiness, her round face is unmistakable. She looks so young. And Frank! They used to torture him when he was an older prefect in school. He had deeply appreciated the quiet respect the older man had for him when they had worked together for the Order back in the day, when that photo had been taken. They were as good as gone after what Bellatrix had done to them… the heartless bitch. They definitely would be ten times better if they were dead.

There, there was Emmeline Vance's stately blond tall figure. Odd how never having talked much at scool he had come to appreciate her presence in the Order that much; her quiet competent brand of expertise made her so very agreeable. God, how the years had passed though, she no longer looked as if a stiff wind could break her, so thin she was then. And Benjy Fenwick… he flinches when he thinks of boor Ben chopped to little bits. And Edgar… another school mate. So many people close to his generation had gone into the damn war headfirst, directly to the first line of action. Sturgis was right to the left, didn't have a wrinkle by then… And Caradoc Dearborn, vanished never to be found. Poor Caradoc… always so terribly nice.

Suddenly the background moved and realized that it was not the background but the massive bulk of Hagrid, looking exactly the same as ever. Elphias Doge with the silver hair must've been seating in front, but it seemed as if he was sitting on Hagrid's knee. The Dumbledores hadn't changed much either, neither Albus nor his brother What's-his-name Goats… the guy from the Hog's Head.

Gideon and Fabian Prewett were there too, their shocks of auburn hair visible like traffic lights… it took five Death Eaters to kill them, and they died because someone, probably Peter, severed connections between those on watch duty and the reserve at the old Headquarters. Small Fabian had gone with them at Hogwarts, shared dormitories and all. Molly must be remembered of them all the time now.

And pretty Dorcas, she had been so lively and charming… they say Voldemort killed her personally. And she was smiling to someone… he looked harder for a moment just to see himself, when he still had short hair and didn't look like death warmed over, shamelessly flirting back. They used to do that a lot too, him and Dorcas.

And just there… his eyes were dragged to it like moths to a flame. James and Lily were there beaming up at him, sitting on either side of a small, watery-eyed man. Pettigrew, his eyes narrowed at the despised bulk just there. Totally oblivious. They simply didn't know what would befall them. His expression must've changed at some point, because he felt a hand in his shoulder shake him back into reality.

"You Okay?" hears Regulus ask. Sirius, quite irrationally, glares at him; his presence here a more painful reminder of the ones who left. It is unfair, but he can't help it. He has done bad things, cruel things and yet he is here. Most of the old Order wouldn't have hurt a fly. All of them deserved to be alive more than he did, more than Sirius did.

He turns around on his heels. He hears faintly in the background Regulus asking:

"So many? But how many of you are left…?" he sounds a bit shaken, probably putting it all in figures and numbers in his head. Those numbers aren't good.

It was just then that he has the vague feeling that something isn't quite right. He can't quite explain it, but the old House is bitching and angry like a scorned lover, and still it always finds the way of somehow sending a warning. He turns around to see Moody standing still and doing what must be looking somewhere through his skull with his magic glass eye. The he starts moving towards the door brushing past him and growling:

"Damn desk in the drawing room!" Sirius sighs and follows him out, followed by both Remus and Regulus.

They climb the stairs in half a run, quickly leaving Moody behind, with his bum leg.

When they reach the door to the spacious room and rush towards the desk Sirius has to contain himself not to jump, and then he freezes in his tracks, just to see a sprawled Weasley on the floor change into Harry. His body lies prone on the floor as if dead, only that another Harry is standing by the armchair looking horrified and terribly shocked, paralyzed.

"What's going on?" asks Lupin as he enters running the drawing room, just from behind Sirius avoiding by sheer luck crushing into his old school friend. He looks from Mrs. Weasley to the dead Harry on the floor and seems to understand in an instant. Pulling out his own wand, he says, very firmly and clearly:

"Riddikulus!"

Harry's body vanishes. A silvery orb hangs in the air now. Lupin waves his wand once more and the orb vanishes in a puff of smoke.

"Oh, oh, oh!" gulps Mrs. Weasley, and she breaks into a storm of crying, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

"Molly," says Lupin bleakly, walking over to her. "Molly don't…" Next second, she is sobbing her heart out on Remus' shoulder. "Molly, it was just a Boggart," he says soothingly, patting her on the head, "just a stupid Boggart."

"I see them d, d, dead all the time!" Mrs. Weasley moans into his shoulder. "All the t, t, time! I d, d, dream about it…"

Moody and Regulus are both silently watching the scene unfold. Sirius is staring at the patch of carpet where the Boggart, shaped to be Harry's body, was laying moments before. He still has to snap out of it. His heartbeat has risen to a frantic pace and a shock of paralyzing cold has come over him. A detached part of his mind notes that it must be fear… not something he has felt before, totally foreign to him, not when he faced Death Eaters for the first time, not when his mother menaced him with that crucicatus curse, not when the Dementors took him, but now. Just by seeing Harry, his godson, the only thing that's left of James, dead.

"D, d, don't tell Arthur," Molly is gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. "I d, d, don't want him to know, being silly…" Lupin hands her a handkerchief and she blows her nose. "Harry, I'm so sorry. What must you think of me?" she says shakily. "Not even able to get rid of a Boggart…"

"Don't be stupid," says Harry, trying to smile, his voice trembling.

"I'm just s, so worried," she says, tears spilling out of her eyes again. "Half the f, f, family's in the Order, it'll b, b, be a miracle if we all come through this, and P, P, Percy's not talking to us. What if something d, d, dreadful happens and we've never made it up with him? And what's going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who's g, g, going to look after Ron and Ginny?"

"Molly that's enough" says Lupin firmly. "This isn't like last time. The Order are better prepared, we've got a head start, we know what Voldemort's up to…" Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the sound of the name. "Oh, Molly, come on, it's about time you got used to hearing his name. Look, I can't promise no one's going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we're much better off than we were last time. You weren't in the Order then, you don't understand. Last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one…"

_Liar_, Sirius' mind supplies. There are as many chances of this happening now as then, his clearly negative states loudly in his head. Voldemort hasn't even begun. The fuck, better prepared. They are still outnumbered. They have good people, talented witches and wizards. Not that it's served for anything. Hell, Molly is most probably right. She's lost people already, she's right to be scared. Gideon and Fabian were wonderful wizards and they're dead. And things are certainly not going to get better if a number of the Order's effectives are locked in an old House sitting on their ass. But when he talks he says none of that though.

"Don't worry about Percy," he says abruptly. "He'll come round. It's only a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry's going to be begging us to forgive them. And I'm not sure I'll be accepting their apology." he adds bitterly.

"And as for who's going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died," says Lupin, smiling slightly, "what do you think we'd do, let them starve?"

Molly smiles tremulously. "Being silly," she mutters again, mopping her eyes.

_No_, the little voice inside his head says. She's just being damn realistic. Now that he thinks about it the only thing the Order seems capable of producing is orphans, widowers and corpses but of course he refrains his tongue. Survival rate is about what… fifty-percent? Damn low. And Sirius just _knows_ Remus was only indulging in wistful thinking, that this _will_ get worse. And he can't help but wonder if his turn is lined somewhere along the line. And he realizes then just how many times he has gambled with life… his and otherwise.

He shakes his head to force that dark rational part of his brain into submission, and to shut up already. Better not to think at all. Walking around thinking one day at a time keeps him sane, just let's keep it that way. But in these painful shots of awareness he wishes, truly does, that he was the next one, so this whole horrible nightmare spinning around him would damn stop. In times like this it seems a rather nice alternative to facing what he has been left with. He has always been so much better at dealing with the unknown…


	13. Chapter 12: Left Behind

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – Left Behind**

Only a couple days later, Sirius finds the twins plotting in a corner while a potion is stirring in one of the broom cupboards in disuse not far away. He shakes his head ruefully, but otherwise settles for observing them from the poorly lit hallway. Thank god the twins are of age or he would have to hear another sermon from Molly about encouraging criminal behaviour for not telling them off immediately. But in Grimmauld Place the wards and barriers are so thick that the Ministry wouldn't have a clue of what is happening inside even if a battle took place. Not that Molly would care.

He has in good authority that the Ministry gets contradictory magical signals form the house, this area as they see it in their maps and vigilance mechanisms, all the time. The wards are like a polished mirror that reflects light, blinding the observer to what takes place not only inside but in the surroundings too. When he had been a child he had practiced magic with a wand regularly, encouraged by his parents, of course… and at the summer break from Hogwarts had done so too and never received a letter. Of course that he hadn't said anything because the last thing he needed was to give proof to the damn woman that he had taken place in any kind of not-quite-legal affair, even as a young boy.

Then he recognizes the potion brewing inside the small cauldron as a brand of babbling beverage, with its purplish tone and its mustard-like consistence in mid-brew. He also notices the large box that they're keeping close by and that contains Glumbumble parts, Alihotsy leaves, a couple doxys, and Bulbabox and Wartcap Powder, probably stolen from the trash can from the day they cleaned the drawing room. Fred pushes the box out of the way to spread some parchment over the surface of yet another box.

"If I were you, I wouldn't keep any of that next to any source of heat." he says nonchalantly, his voice ringing loud and clear over the whispers of the twins. The twins jump in the air only to look at him guiltily and startled, and then at each other.

"Please, don't tell Mum." whispers Fred with large pleading eyes, which he's pretty sure are completely fake. "Pretty please…" begs George.

"I'm not going to do so, but…" they both look wary. "…you'll have to do me a favour."

The twins look both curious and surprised.

"Whatever Sirius." says Fred. Sirius palms his breast pocket and removes what looked like a cigarette box and hands it to George.

"I need you to swap this for my brother's real one." he says quietly.

"Yeah, sure." George says up. "You have a deal, mate."

"Why don't you do it yourself?" asks Fred. Sirius smirks.

"Because he's looking out for me since your little stunt with the eyes." he says as he motions to leave.

"Wait a minute!" exclaims George. "You were already planning on making us do that!"

"Tut, tut…" Sirius seems terribly amused. "Of course, already tried myself. Didn't work… Not that you can refuse. Now I can blackmail you with _that_." he says with a twinkle in his eyes, and points at their bubbling cauldron.

"True." grumbles George, realizing they have been bested. "Okay, we'll do it."

"The pleasure is mine boys, for doing business with you." he says letting out a peal of laughter. "Just steer those powders away from that potion. If it explodes you are cleaning and scrubbing this cupboard by yourselves."

"'Kay… thanks for the advice." says Fred as he points to their own box.

Later in the evening, the childrens are laying the table and while Molly stirs a few timers more the stew for it to be ready, Remus and Sirius there too. The sounds of the crackling fire and bits and pieces of quiet conversation are suddenly muffled by a loud bang behind the kitchen door, or close to the pantry.

Molly looks towards where the sound has come with a look of alarm. Then the door bursts open and Regulus appears behind it, fuming. His face is as black as his hair and his eyes gleaming furiously, his whole body shacking noticeably. The entire shirt collar is burnt black, and his right hand has become blackened too as it is holding onto what looks like a combusted cigarette.

Their first reaction is to freeze, but when he starts walking towards the sink, everyone in the room (except for Molly, who is still frowning) starts laughing. Regulus stands by the sink and with cold water starts to try and remove the black dust that covers both his face and his hands. Now Sirius is letting out his sharp bark-like laugh, like they haven't seen him like that in a long time. When Regulus removes his head of the sink, he turns towards his brother looking a bit more than upset.

"For God's sake Sirius! There was no need for that." he reproaches him.

"Who says it was me?" asks Sirius tartly now.

"Who else would do that? It has your sticky fingerprints all over it. There was no need of placing a small bomb in there; an exploding cigarette would have made the message come across!" Remus Lupin is trying to hold his laughter in but failing in front of the nonsensical situation "My teeth are still feeling it." He says as he massages his jaw, shooting a resentful look at his brother. "My _brains_ are still dancing inside my skull."

"It serves you good." says Sirius as he disinterestedly inspects his nails. "That should teach you not to smoke inside the house."

"I can't get outside the house…"

"That's my point, you shouldn't smoke, let the fun of killing you to me not tobacco." the twins are now in hysterics. Regulus is piercing him with his eyes, still massaging his hand and jaw. But he says nothing, and in stead he just chooses to sit there and look at the patterns of the wooden surface.

::::::::::::::

The first of September the house is awakened by the screams of Mrs. Black and Mrs. Wealsley, both sounding in unison. Mrs. Weasley is yelling at the twins because they have thrown Ginny down the stairs with two jinxed trunks, and Regulus makes a point of making himself scarce.

"….COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, YOU IDIOTS…"

"…FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BESMIRCHING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS…"

Although he cannot completely ignore the ruckus, as the noise trespasses the walls and resonated through the halls was quite impossible to turn completely off.

"WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!" Mrs. Weasley bellows to the children that are still up in their rooms.

Mrs. Black's portrait is howling with rage but nobody is bothering to close the curtains over her; all the noise in the hall is bound to rouse her again, anyway. Funny enough, Sirius does not appear today to shut Mrs. Black, but lets her go on yelling. Mrs Weasley is directing people around in the hall when the familiar bear-like black dog appears at Harry's side as he is clambering over the various trunks cluttering the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley. He is followed by the younger Black brother, who is looking down at Sirius with a sceptical look.

It is a strange dog, massive in built, but so appallingly thin. It is pitch-black and the fur is thick, with long silky hairs and a feathered tail with long tresses of fine black hair. The relatively small ears stand upright, alert and jerking ever so slightly with every different noise. And while the size of the dog is surprising, as it is even bigger than an Irish Wolfhound and the race itself is undefined, the most startling property of the creature are its eyes. They are very pale, very light, a very soft grey and they seem to shine in the semidarkness. They are intelligent, alert eyes, not animal eyes, and a bit outputting.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!" shrieks Molly. Sirius only wags his tail insolently.

"I won't even tell you not to go, because I know you won't even listen." says Regulus, the dog looks back up at him and gives his hand a big wet sloppy lick all over, then barks at him in a way reminiscent of his usual bark-like laugher. Regulus looks disgustedly to his now wet hand and waves it in the air. "That, was completely unnecessary, by the way."

He goes to pat the proud head with the slobbery hand in retaliation, but a warning growl deep in the big beast's throat and a pointed glare from the clear altogether non-animal eyes dissuade him and his hand hovers in mid-air. And the exchange is swiftly interrupted by Mrs Weasley.

"Oh honestly…" says Mrs. Weasley despairingly as she looks at them. "Well, on your own head be it!"

She wrenches open the front door and Sirius bounds out of the door faster that anyone can say quidditch, leaving the arduous job of shutting the cantankerous portrait to Regulus. Outside, the door slams behind them and Mrs. Black's screeches are cut off instantly.

The great black dog runs up and down the street, circles them joyfully, sniffs people as they pass… managing a quite convincing imitation of a true dog. He gives a joyful bark and gambols around them, snapping at pigeons and chasing its own tail.

Sirius feels dizzy with happiness… he can't smell the rotting air of Grimmauld Place, and the deafening silence that mostly reigns in the dratted old mansion is gone, chased away by the roar of car engines and the shouting of people in the streets. Sirius has been trapped inside for a very long time, too long for anyone's sanity. He runs in shorts sprints and rejoins the group many times, revelling in the feeling of burning lungs and how his muscles stretch at a run.

It takes them twenty minutes to reach King's Cross on foot and nothing more eventful happens during that time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry's entertainment. Once inside the station they linger casually beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten until the coast is clear, then each of them leans against it in turn and falls easily through on to Platform nine and three-quarters, where the Hogwarts Express stands belching sooty steam over a platform packed with departing students and their families.

Sirius looks curiously all around and observing the familiar space for the first time in long years. He dodges people in the crowd and has to contain himself once or twice to avoid biting someone's ankles. Instead he sticks close to Harry and the Weasleys.

"Nice dog, Harry!" calls a tall black boy with dreadlocks. Sirius barks at him happily and looks curiously in the lad's direction.

"Thanks, Lee!" says Harry, grinning, as Sirius wags his tail frantically.

When he can bring himself to pay attention again to the group he sides with Mad-eye, and nudges him in the arm with the muzzle.

"No trouble?" growls Moody.

"Nothing" says Lupin.

"I'll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore," says Moody, "that's the second time he's not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus."

"Well, look after yourselves," says Lupin, shaking hands all round. He reaches Harry last and gives him a clap on the shoulder. "You too. Harry. Be careful."

"Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled," says Moody, shaking Harry's hand too. "And don't forget, all of you… careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it in a letter at all."

The warning whistle sounds; the students still on the platform hurry on to the train. For one brief moment, the great black dog rears on to its hind legs and with all its majestic size, places its front paws on Harry's shoulders… before Mrs. Weasley shoves him away towards the train door.

"For heaven's sake, act more like a dog, Sirius!" she hisses.

The kids wave goodbye from the open window as the train begins. Suddenly, out of an impulse, Padfoot bounds forward, and with long evens strides picks up speed as the train does. He dodges people in the crowd, and runs alongside the window, wagging his tail. He distantly hears people's laughter. Finally the train begins to go faster and faster and he barks one last time as they disappear around the bend.

And there is a terrible feeling of loss; of terrible finality. It shouldn't because no-one has died; all is well and as it should be. He trots morosely back into the station and towards the group, his tail limp and ears downcast. Remus whistles at him.

"Padfoot! Come here!" the big black dog approaches the tawny-haired man, and his tail starts moving a bit again, as if saying 'hello'. "Let's go back, shall we."

If anyone finds it strange that a grown man is talking to a dog about plans and such, nobody says so, in fact people seems to pass by them unnoticed.

"I have to go to the Ministry, I'll pass by later." says Mr. Weasley as he kisses his wife goodbye.

"Yeah, me too." says Tonks. "see you later guys!"

And it does looks strange because she is still looking like an old spinster, and the words just fit her strangely. The dog head butts her in the small of her back, and affectionately tugs at her skirt, before she swats his rump and he gives an undignified yelp.

"And you Moody?" asks Lupin.

"I have a guard you-know-where." he whispers, his fake eye spinning like mad. Lupin sighs.

"Ok, then it's you" says motioning to Molly. "Pads, and me going back."

"Exactly. Let's going." she says still eyeing Sirius as if he had just killed some innocent pigeon and had its entrails hanging from his mouth.

Remus, Molly and Sirius exit King's Cross and head back to Grimmauld Place. Sirius spends the entire ride back running up and down the street, trying to chase pigeons and asking the passersby to tickle him. It is plain obvious that he is enjoying himself, and that thought alone makes Remus smile.

Although if he looks at it attentively enough he can see just how the bounce in his trot is not as cheery, or the longing looks he throws around are more pronounced, or how much more he ignores Molly. He supposes that the pressure of going back alone could do that to anyone, especially if you've been months trying to get out in the first place.

::::::::::::::

When they reach the house they enter quietly, trying not to awake the house's resident _You-know-who_. The massive form of the black dog wanders inside and confounds itself with the surrounding darkness in the poorly lit hallway. In mid stroll it changes back from dog to man, whose face contorts itself in a frown of contempt as he looks the dark walls surrounding him again. When he turns around he comes face to face with the rage of Molly Weasley.

"Dumbledore told you NOT to get out of the house." she hisses. "He specifically told you couldn't go to King's Cross!" And as they are still in the hallway, somehow it manages to awaken again Mrs. Black, yet again.

"I wanted to say goodbye to him! That's all! No harm came out of it, damnit!"

"You were told not to!" she fights back. "It's not so difficult to understand!"

"Please, stop!" says Remus bravely stepping in between the two titans as Sirius fingers start to tense ominously and his knuckles start to go white.

"You were putting you and him both, in danger!" she refuses to concede back. She acts like an enraged bull, lowering her head and charging onwards relentlessly; regardless of the consequences to herself or the convenience of a diplomatic retreat. Her eyes are two irate little spots glowing in the dim light.

"No one knows I'm an animagus Molly! Specially not the all those children! It doesn't matter that a Death Eater might've seen because they couldn't do anything in a space crowded and packed as King's Cross! And the Ministry still doesn't know!" yells Sirius, back unable to restrain himself any longer. It is that or hexing her, and he somehow doesn't think Arthur will appreciate that much. "You worry far too much!"

"No, I worry enough! Besides he's my son' best friend! Practically a son to me!" she yells.

"And he's my best friend's son! Where is the difference exactly?" he spats.

That is when Regulus Black comes running down the stairs, drawn to the hall by the shrieks of his mother and glares at them. And with a wave of his arm and a pointed finger he banishes them to the kitchen.

"Stop this right now!" Molly shuts up immediately from the impression. The normally quiet features are as stormy as any Black's can be when in a dark mood. The silence crackles with tension in the triangle formed between both darkling heads and the red-headed woman. Sirius in spite of being really mad himself doesn't dignify the order with a reply, and passes beside the outstretched arm with a flurry of dark robes and the murmur of good silk against his ankles.

"Don't follow him, Molly." Remus warns her. "Don't pursue the matter."

And he tugs her sleeve until she follows him into the bowels of the house, or the kitchen as they are most known. He puts the kettle on the stove and she allows him to pour her some tea. As he settles down she breaks the silence that has descended upon them.

"Maybe he would see the wrong in his ways if you would stop enabling him, Remus." she says, her lips still pursed.

"Enabling him?" he asks politely.

"Yes, he does… rash things. Is a danger to all of us and still everyone lets it go." she accuses. "He is not well and does not behave as a member of the Order should; moreover he is a danger to Harry… And the poor child, of course doesn't realise that…"

"Harry has never had anyone." Remus patiently explains. "And don't be offended, but as much as he loves your family and staying with you, you are not his family Molly. You'll always have your own children, they know each other better… Sirius is an adult who cares for him profoundly, has known him since birth, and Harry doesn't have to share him with anyone. Of course he's attached to Sirius."

"He is a bad influence." she repeats stubbornly.

"Everyone can be a bad influence…" says Remus with a frown. "in the right circumstances. Look, I'm not trying to diminish you, but you're being far too judgemental with all this."

His words are kind but his tone is severe and the edge of his words sting. Sirius and Remus so often work on such entirely different levels that sometimes it is too easy for her and everyone else, to overlook the depth of their friendship. The great amount of years they've known each other. And the unwavering loyalty that binds them still despite everything they've undergone. She frowns too.

"He's frustrated and profoundly unhappy, Molly. You would be as well, in his position. But he is not mad or inherently stupid." says Lupin.

"He gambles with his life, and endangers people around him all the time!" she protests. "if he's not stupid then he is totally irresponsible."

"He lives of risk. It keeps him going, I guess." he thoughtfully contemplates the depths of his cup of tea. "But this is nothing new… more like it made him invaluable for the Order."

"Now it is not fifteen years ago Remus! And you both keep forgetting that too often." she accuses. "and if, as he keeps reminding me he is Harry's Godfather, that certainly doesn't make him appear a very good one." Remus pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Before extending judgement you should know he is more than capable of getting himself… any anyone who is along for the ride, out of trouble anytime, anywhere." he counters. "He can handle himself, what he can't handle is inactivity. Ad by the way, him being inactive doesn't mean he truly is as useless as Snape says."

"He can be as good as he wants, but he is clearly, not by himself, we can't afford it now. He's got Harry to think of."

"And believe it or not, he accts accordingly. He's stayed here." he says. "Before, I doubt it very much he wouldn't have resigned his post outright. All this two years he's done what's best for Harry. _Truly_. Harry is the reason he's still in England."

He looks tired and weary. He feels all this effort he is putting into justifying someone who won't thank him for it later, in front of an enraged mother of seven who won't listen to reason in the best of circumstances… well, it is a bit pointless.

"Look Molly… you can't expect for him to treat Harry as a small child, first because he truly isn't…" he raises his hand for her to let him continue as she is about to protest. "… and then because you can't expect him to do so when he himself has never been treated like one. You don't know what it was like it back then for him. He's had to take horrible decisions from very early age… and he will always measure young people with a bit of a distorted point of view."

"Well… it is no-one's fault how horrible his childhood was!" she exclaims. "Harry needs security, not someone to twist even more what he's got left of childhood. He can't possibly be a reassuring influence!"

He knows what Molly is wondering now is if she should dub Harry's parents as mad people too, just because they named a man she considers highly disrespectable and unstable as their only son's Godfather. Of course, that she doesn't understand the arrogant git doesn't have anything to do with all this business.

"Don't let any of them two hear that." he counsels, and pauses "Sirius' got as many virtues as he's got defects. I'm not blind or stupid either… recklessness, rashness, arrogance, a tendency to be disdainful, he's got horrible mood swings, sometimes ruthless, being sometimes outright cruel… I know, all you've got to say, I know. But even you can see this is not all there is to him."

"No." she says and presses her lips tightly.

- You're only seeing his disgruntled persistent presence inside Headquarters. But there are a lot of positive things Harry can learn from him. He's extremely resilience to bad influences of any kind; his thoughts cannot be swayed, or tampered with. Never takes the easy way out, but does what deep down believes is right no matter what personal cost. He doesn't follow convention or general acceptance but a strict code of honour, maybe not standard, but he has his rules and sticks to them. He never gives up. He never gives in. He's here isn't he? He's deeply loyal to his people…" he tries to convey into words. "He loves so hard. That's what it really is, like no one else I've ever known. It's his greatest strength, you know… as well as the origin of almost all the worst things in his life. He loves fiercely. If you're one of his people, he'll kill for you; die for you; live for you… no questions asked, no blames placed, no way on earth to stop him. He doesn't do it on purpose, either, not out of any special choice. It's just how he is."

Molly nods half-heartedly.

"It also means that perceived betrayal is a deep wound that can tear a relationship apart forever… look at his family. He does nothing by halves; he either loves you or hates you. And those he tolerates it is mostly because he either does not know or puts up in behalf of someone he does truly and genuinely like." he shakes his head. "What makes Regulus' presence back in his life even more surprising… now that I think of it…"

"No offence Remus, but it is not as if any of this is going to keep him from eventually harming someone." cuts him Molly, stubborn.

"Cut him some slack!" Remus seems now truly irritated. "After all he's come through… Azkaban is no stroll in the park. No matter how you look at it Azkaban is Hell of Earth. You're seeing only the harsher part of Sirius, the one with cutting edges. But he is not mad, nor going mad. And Azkaban is not an infectious illness he carries around like a cloak! You should do well to stop looking at him suspiciously every time he talks. He deserves the chance to right his life… it should not be fair that after a wrongful imprisonment people now mistrust him because he has been _imprisoned_, although they can no longer blame him for doing anything in the first place!"

"He acts as if he's delusional! He's not well, he can right his life all he wants as long as he doesn't hurt anyone else!" she says.

"I don't say he is well… yet. Give him time. And don't be so harsh… when it is unnecessary." he pauses and gives a long defeated sigh. "…not now, but other times. You ought not to, because none of us can know what we would do if we were in his shoes, because fortunately we can't imagine what it is… neither my experiences nor yours come even close. And I was saying you should just stop reminding him of his slip-ups every time he mentions someone who's dead. Is not as if he talks of them thinking they're alive… isn't it? He speaks a lot in the past because he doesn't have any memories worth reviving to talk and compare that are of a recent past. The only 'normal' frame of reference he has is fifteen years outdated. Even he can't catch up that fast!"

"I can't promise you anything, but I'll try. I don't see it doing any good though…" she concedes, but still she doesn't look happy about it. And then quickly cleanses the pots over the sink before leaving, all the while with Remus quietly contemplating the dancing flames in the large stone fireplace.

::::::::::::::

When Remus goes looking for Sirius he is forced to think for a moment that he has finally found out a way to get out of the house definitively. But he does find him, eventually. He is sitting very still in the depths of the darkened study. He is brooding in silence. When normal people are upset, they tend to gesticulate and flail about, but Sirius's brain is wired backwards. When Sirius is upset, he goes very tense and still, a taut rope about to snap, and Merlin help the bystander who sets him off. When normal people are angry they shout and yell and curse. But Sirius' responses are clearly not that of a normal man, for although he shouts when mildly irritated, he dons a quiet contention and menacing quiet when absolutely mad. Like the foreboding of a hurricane.

Sirius fixes him with a glare as he enters. And Remus could think lots of things about it; that Sirius has been offended because he's tried to calm Molly when she's wrong in his views, or because he's come to disturb his brooding silence, or because he's acting as if he's going to explode any moment now… or could be any of the above, or none of them at all.

"You heard." he says. It is not a question, and he surprises himself with the certainty behind his words.

"It is my house." is his answer.

Remus wonders if Sirius realises how extremely cryptic and secretive he is being about everything in this house. How he acts as if he despises all this and then says something like this, which brings to the forefront that he is indeed a Black. No-one has been able to figure yet how the myriad of ward layers and protection spells truly work, and the rules of this magical property, only Sirius seems to fully comprehend it. The walls of Grimmauld Place, have eyes.

"She is just doing what she believes is best." he says warily.

"Molly needs to learn when to stop smothering him, Remus. I just remember what it's like at that age and it's not doing him any favours." he says. "And don't say I never grew up… for I can't remember what it was like to be a child in the first place.

"I know. She just wants to spare him any undue…" but Remus finds himself being interrupted by his friend.

"She is terribly narrow-minded… no better than half of those we fight." he snaps. "if you don't fit in her mould, her pattern of respectability then you can't be a good person. Fine! If I marry and have a bunch of bawling babies and find a boring stupid job, I will be most suited to tend for Harry? No matter how selfish I'm deep down…"

"You act rashly Sirius." he sighs. "That does nothing to appease her."

"I do not have to answer to her!" he says. "It's not as if she is ever in the frontline to dare judge the others. She is in a bloody kitchen in the dankest place on all England, where nobody has asked her to be!"

"Every little help we can get is important, Sirius; no matter how insignificant. That's why we are the Order…"

Silence hangs heavy between them. Sirius takes to gazing through a crack on the draperies by the window down onto the streets, where people come and go. Then Sirius stares at him evenly with his usual guarded expression securely in place. The pressure of his gaze makes Remus look away and shuffle his feet briefly, as he would've done when they were young. With his stormy eyes blazing and perfectly even features, his face speaks of ageless importance, the high curve of his cheekbones and brow, aristocratically faultless; he is the Lord of the House.

"I'm not going to risk Harry." he finally breaks the silence. "You know that." Remus almost smiles.

"I do know that." he answers solemnly.

"Don't you just know everything?" is Sirius' comeback, irritated by his friend's steadiness. It is selfish but he wants him to get angry too, so he is not alone in his anger anymore.

"That was unnecessarily bitter." Sirius doesn't answer at all and resumes staring away into the streets. "If you're going to be offended it might be better to say so, rather than getting sarcastic, Sirius. It doesn't help anyone." he says impatiently.

"Not if you're going to keep psychoanalyzing me, Dr Freud." he bites back.

"I am not…"

"You think you know me so bloody well…" he goes on. "Well, let me tell you something: you don't know me at all. It is most what you can't know about me and my past that what you bloody well damn know!"

"That was over the top! I haven't done anything but defend you!" he shouts back at him.

"Then you lot better stop trying to fix me!" he shouts back. "I don't need anyone else digging around in my head while I'm still trying to get it straight. I'm not mad!"

"I thought so, although I'm starting to doubt it now… Maybe I don't know you… because I'm being far too nice. Do you want to see where you went wrong in the head? Go to the damn bathroom and look into a mirror! Do I need say more?"

The stare doesn't waver, and now standing at his full height, Sirius would be menacing to anyone else. Anyone else who was not Remus Lupin. In fact the defiant attitude is almost reassuring. It comes back to familiar terrain.

"Don't bring them into this." is the only answer.

"Don't act like them." he says.

Silence stretches once more before Sirius passes by him, and Remus sighs. The fact is that, emphatic rants and blunt honesty aside, Sirius isn't a talker when it comes to whatever the hell he is feeling. Not now, not ever. He bottles things up and lets it all build up silently until it all goes over the top, like just now and, he can tell, one needs loads of experience to withstand one of these outbursts.

"I feel as if I'm back at the beginning without no progress whatsoever." Sirius suddenly comments. "I'm still responsible for a big state, which is no little work without considering it is rundown, I have my own family to care about, people doesn't trust me despite I've given everything I have to help the cause… is there any more dirt that can still be piled over me?"

"I don't know. I think we all feel a bit like that." he comments quietly. "I am tired, Padfoot..." Sirius seems to startle at the sudden use of the familiar long-forgotten nickname. "More tired than you could ever know." he whispers sadly.

Sirius' face breaks out into a pained imitation of his old charming smirk as he lets out a bark like laugh.

"Want to make a bet, Moony? I haven't slept properly in almost fifteen years..." his voice trails off. "I'm sorry, you can probably relate just fine." he says with a sad smile.

And Remus doesn't know if he should be elated he has torn away an apology from Sirius, an event to be marked in the calendar for the posterity; or terribly sad at the way laughter fills away from Sirius as water from a punctured bag. His barking laugh is always filled with a bitter undertone quite difficult to miss. His mind and his mouth know the sounds, the motions, but his heart isn't in it anymore.

He claps his friend's shoulder as he leaves, he knows when his presence is not needed nor wanted anymore. And he closes the door behind him.


	14. Chapter 13: Vaulted Void

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – Vaulted Void**

The following days are provably the most boring they had to endure in the totality of their stay at Headquarters. The House, filled with life despite its gloomy regal presence previously, is now completely empty and silent as a tomb. Sirius spends the day going up and down like a ghost, cleaning what he can get his hands onto, throwing most of it away, and not really talking to anyone. Regulus on the other hand, in a sort of inverse process, stops hiding as much in the furthest reaches of the house, now that the risk of running into someone has been fairly reduced.

The visitor rate has dwindled considerably; Tonks drops by now and then, the same as Bill, to say hi and give a bit of conversation. Moody comes only for the meetings, and Kingsley passes more regularly but not too often either.

Lupin leaves more and more on prolonged absences that respond to the needs of whatever crazy mission the old Headmaster has dumped upon him. He comes back exhausted and hurting; and Sirius has the feeling that it is altogether too dangerous. If his doggy sense of smell doesn't fool him, he preserves it in part while human after so many years of exercising his animagus skills almost full time, he'd say that it involves werewolves.

Only Dumbledore would think of trying to appease the ferals, for is obvious that lone-wolfs are not worth the effort needed to convince them of anything and too well hidden to be found that easily. Also, as a general rule they don't stink. Of course he doesn't stop to think that the same worry that overtakes him every time his friend leaves or Nymphadora is swaying on her feet after a harrowing guard duty is easily transferable to whatever others feel when he places himself in danger too. On the bright side of it all, is that with the beginning of the Hogwarts Year, Snape has stopped coming by, unless there is a meeting of utmost importance.

With nothing better to do, Sirius restarts the cleaning tasks immediately. They should be proud; by now, the vast majority of bedrooms has been cleaned, as well as the halls, living rooms, drawing rooms and all the rest of small quarters that there are. So the next thing they start with is the daunting task of bringing into shape the great library of the Blacks.

The Grimmauld place's library has a history of its own. It is a huge room and occupies its fair share of space in three different floors, four if you count the small vaults in the basement. It is as old as the very pillars that support the house and not much of its original layout has been touched by the generations of Blacks that have studied amongst its shelves. Contrary to many other libraries of the pure-blooded families it contains all types of books, and has a copy of every book that has ever entered the family collections. It has only grown with time, from ancient parchment to relatively new schoolbooks. The Blacks have always been proud of it, and that their family can say that it has been used as a source of knowledge, and not only as a way to show their wealth and status as only the purchase of all kinds of rare books can do.

Sirius, in an attack of common sense takes the precaution of starting by the topmost floor of the old library so they can start by one end until they reach the bottom. Molly, recruited for the task as she has not yet abandoned Headquarters, watches curiously as she is led to a set of three doors on a corridor near her room. Those doors are regal-looking, of dark-rich wood and they're dark-blue coloured glass panels have been made opaque by the accumulation of dust overtime. She has wondered many times what lays behind those doors before, but after an incident with a wardrobe they opened without consent she resolved to ignore the rooms Sirius didn't deem urgent to their cleaning. And she's curious because she's never seen a real Library outside of Hogwarts; she only owns a shelf in the Burrow with a few books for practical reading.

Sirius fumbles with an old set of keys they found in the study until a heavy set and ornate key turns on the lock and the door swings open with a pained groan. The room is dark and they can't see in front of their noses, but the air is dry and smells like dust and old parchment.

With a tap of his wand on one the old chandeliers melded into the wood of the shelves, Regulus lights the vast room, as one after the other little lights appear in the dark and their eyes take sight of the picture in front of their eyes.

The sight of the room isn't precisely encouraging; piles and piles of books are strewn around and occupy the floor in precariously balanced piles, half of the shelves were empty and the books on the floor having felt from their place are in bad condition. The snake-shaped chandeliers that had been used to light the room are all cobwebby and have grime of all kinds on them, some are even broken. Every single object of the room is covered in a thick layer of dust.

The air is very much that of a place that hasn't seen the daylight in at least a decade, stale and wasted.

Sirius comes forward to look over the banister for a moment as he contemplates the darkness downstairs; he shakes his head and turns around, toeing a book on the floor with contempt. As the book remains unmoving he picks it up and thumbs trough its pages before returning _Quintessence: A Quest_ by something or other 'Utgier.

"What a mess." he mutters under his breath, and deposits the book in a nearby table of dark ebony wood with griffon claws instead of legs.

"What happened here?" asks Regulus utterly bewildered. As he looks in disbelief the disastrous state of the stately room, former pride of and already proud family.

"It's fair to assume that mother had a fit…" answers his brother. "There are no earthquakes in London, Reg. And she did have problems with anger management…" he almost spits the words out, and Molly begins to understand why they both seem so afraid of their own mother. The picture she sees now is disheartening.

The room is vast and must have been beautiful and breathtaking in its day. It is a square room with books covering the walls of its perimeter. In the middle of the room there is the gaping oval hole Sirius Just approached. It gives the room a sense of space. Over their heads and just above it a glass vault is enchanted to show the sky of London despite the floors above and the attic. But today is the dawn of an ugly day and the light seeping in is scarce. Looking down, visitors can see how the Library is several floors deep.

The Library is in fact a single room several stories high, a wooden floor has been built to be level with the magnificent sets of three doors in each floor but the basement level, in which the floor is bare stone. As they have entered trough the door they see a short aisle that leads directly to a banister, and an aisle that travels the length of the perimeter of the empty space in the middle. To descend to inferior levels, two symmetrical sets of stairs fly parallel to the banister just in front of the doors and descended into the darkness beyond.

The bookshelves are of solid English oak, dark with time and beautifully craved, they reach to the ceiling and light elegant sets of ladders attached to them allow the reader to access the books stored a the top. At regular intervals some shelves appear that are directed towards the centre of the room, perpendicular to the outer walls. When they reach the banister they interrupt the ring aisle and they unite with strong and elegant wooden pillars with carved capitals, and the aisle then turns inwards leading in front of a panel-less door craved through the shelf, being several feet deep and with the familiar crest craved on both sides of the interior.

"Well…" comments Molly." This is gonna take some time.

She is now contemplating the swirling clouds of dust that arise every time they take a step.

"It took centuries to build… it only seems fair it should take centuries to cleanse." Regulus comments, apparently not letting discouragement get the better of him.

"Lets hope not. Well's start by this level. Thank Merlin someone once though about charming this woodworm-proof." he comments. "I think you should stick to cleaning the empty shelves and tables, Molly." says Sirius to the red-head woman.

"And why's that?" asks Molly, visibly upset by the advice and the slightly patronizing tone. "I'm perfectly capable of handling old books with care."

Sirius rises and eyebrow, and inwardly rolls his eyes. It is annoying the ability people have to interpret everything he says as a personal slight. But despite thinking the question stupid, he says:

"Because the books in this library are blood warded against thieves and generally anyone not their owner, therefore can only be removed from its place by a member of the Black family. And I shudder at the thought of what kind of hexes might be found between the pages of some of these books." he tells her. "Some shelves are not, but as I can't be looking over your shoulder for which ones are or are not cursed… we'll just act as if they all were."

Molly nods tersely, suddenly eyeing the Library as if it was devil incarnate.

"And I think we'll have to do by wand everything we can…" comments Regulus. "…that or the muggle way. I'm not sure there aren't protections against potentially damaging products, and as the wards are very old and I don't think nobody bothered to update them, I don't believe the products we've been using would be recognized." he looks at Sirius questioningly. "Trust me Mrs Weasley, you don't want to set these off…"

"That's the height of wizarding paranoia… who wants all these! Even he who set them could've been hurt."

"Not really," Sirius tells her. "the magic of the house instantly recognizes us by blood. And it is a prudent measure. There are lots of inflammable concoctions when left unattended. I assume they considered that no-one has any need of bringing any of them around here in the first place." he seems to mull over it. "And I assume that if it was one of us who set them off it would not harm us, merely act over the substance… unless they've gone out of control. The problem is that we don't know how it would act upon someone who is not family in that circumstance. The library has never been open to visitors you see."

"I'm just glad the boys are not around then." she says.

The titanic task is taken on step by step. By levels, between the two brothers, all the books are removed from the shelves, piled in the middle of the aisles and over empty tables and carpets and every other available empty space. Sirius deactivates the wards around the shelves as much as he can improvising as he is without any major spell-work or risking damaging the magical protection of the house. They clean the old wooden furniture, seeing how the polished lacquered surfaces come to shine once more. They dust the books individually, and they place them back on their place. But only if Sirius doesn't consider the book too horrible even to keep for the sake of knowledge. A few books full of pure-blood propaganda and other barbaric nonsense about muggles go directly to the proverbial bonfire, but to Molly's surprise and disgust he keeps others with potentially dangerous and obscure potions and venoms or hexes. That way Wizarding Supremacy is discarded without contemplations, but and ancient leather-bound _An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms _with some charms that no sane person would ever apply,_ Asiatic Anti-Venoms _with ideas for some kind of poisoning that are frightening, or _Anthology of Old Punishment Hexes_ are after all, replaced in their shelves.

They work in areas, in fact they spend an entire week in section A, and Regulus' words begin to seem prophetic. Once the books are in place the two brothers engineer themselves around the sticking charms on the carpets and remove them so they can have a proper wash. They roll them up and in pieces they bring them down to the kitchen, where with the help of all sorts of restoring potions and the like a beautiful ultramarine blue is revealed under the faded grey, with white stars sewn on it with silver thread. Remembering that they once shone faintly in the dark, Regulus insist they repair the spell too, which has been severely damaged by the action of moths.

Molly's eyes them warily when they prowl in the confines of her domain, but she mostly ignores them. After only two days of work in the library, Molly abandons them and shuts herself in the kitchen, being clear as water that she finds the Black brothers' company as infinitely grating as they find hers. So she leaves the two of them alone, to ignore each other, or kill each other if necessary without the pleasure of her company. The library is hard work and she feels a bit useless as they don't let her touch much, apart what is very much at hand, and spends lots of time arms-crossed. She can't quite have her way here as it happened with other rooms, and she knows there is no other way.

They spend most of the time working in silence, cleaning the covers of the books and replacing them at their rightful spot. There are few words said and those which are said are always on matters of no importance, trivialities and idle comments, or terrible pragmatic ones the likes of '_scoot over_' or '_pass that one over there_'.

It is like learning to live with each other all over again, which it actually is. They have not have had to live together in close quarters since early childhood, and despite their alikeness, they have often problems finding common ground in which to keep civil conversation. There is a sort of awkwardness to their interactions that shouldn't be there for to people that can so easily read each other.

It would have been easy were not for their pride. That is provably their biggest fault in both of them. Or more like the biggest common fault of them both. Both are extremely proud men, and their prides collide often, causing yelling episodes that could compete with their mother's. Because although they are willing to make thinks work again, none of them is willing to forgive and forget. The scenes of a past tragedy of long ago, that still haunt Grimmauld Place today, seem to reverberate in the silence that stretches further every day. The shouting bouts are usually followed by utter silence for at least a week; in which usually one of them finds an excuse to disappear from the other's presence and they manage to avoid each other while still working all the same.

These arguments, careless comments thrown in an innocent enough conversation that make sparks fly and end up igniting a bonfire, sometimes give cause to Sirius to question the decision he made that winter night of 1979.

He muses about his own motives, which he himself has never quite understood. He is quite sure it wasn't love. There was that, maybe deep down, long ago it might've been. But he knows that whatever attachment of yore, embittered by anger and resentment, would not have prevented him from doing what he had to do. And he didn't see danger to any of those he loved when he looked at a beaten down, defeated and desperate Regulus. And he is certain that he didn't make an error of judgment, he still has enough confidence in himself and his instinctive ability to predict the kind of people his family frequented.

And isn't it ironic, that sometime normal people are so puzzling to him. And yet he has never failed to predict accurately the actions and motives behind them of any of the members of his family, some of the most dangerous and secretive of the wizarding folk in England. To him his own mother and Bellatrix are see-trough. And then he couldn't predict good ol' Peter.

And he can predict Regulus just as easily, although he knows that he himself is much more difficult to pin down. And he knows the whole story. That is a good reason to believe Reguus truly changed sides for good, and surprisingly, without coaxing. On his own free will. It is that, the unwillingness to bend the knee in front of an ideal-less monster the frail bond that has started to bring them closer after all these years. That and the life-debt that now hangs between them.

And he knows he did the right thing, but sometimes… He feels anger seeping out of himself in waves, and lashes out blindly, and then hates himself for the unfairness he is displaying. More afraid than ever that he is becoming his own mother. Or he suddenly feels his hardened insides soften with a comment and the complicity that implies only they know what it is all about. And he hates himself for how easily he can forget all the people he _knows_ Regulus hurt, and trusted him.

In the end he can't help but rely in the familiarity of their bond, no matter how deeply buried. It is familiar ground, as much as Remus is, and he knows that as matters stands he too will come back after every fight. Regulus doesn't judge him in regards to Azkaban, and doesn't make awkward questions about his welfare. He doesn't treat him like he is about to break, which couldn't be further away from the mark; he seems to have utter confidence that he will pull trough.

And it is that blind faith that helps him exist in this house sometimes. The knowledge that his existence means something to someone, and that someone knowing all his faults and darker corners, needs him there as much as he needs them there. Because Regulus relies in his existence, as his only family, to order his life around. Regulus is a pack animal, and needs someone to protect and care about, to fight away the loneliness.

They are brothers, so alike and yet so different.

Lupin comes back first to Grimmauld Place nº12 one rainy afternoon, in the middle of one of those quarrels. He lets his instinct guide him to Molly first in order to coax her into giving him something to fill his stomach with even though it is not yet dinnertime. Then he goes to look for them in the library with her indications, grumbling all the way how much of an utter nonsense it is that being a set of doors at ground level he has been commanded to enter via the second floor.

He pauses in front of the half-opened door, and sees how someone has washed only one of the panels and the glasswork is now visible showing again the black family crest engraved in the deep-blue of the glass. That crest is everywhere. The rest though has been ignored as if someone had become suddenly tired. He pushes the door open. And the library alone is enough to stop him in his tracks. He contemplates momentarily stunned the vastness of knowledge stored there. He thinks for a moment of the money and the time required in order to achieve this monumental tribute to past knowledge.

He goes in search of Sirius, enjoying all the while the perfume of old books and the dust they accumulate, which to him is one of the most interestingly pleasant odours ever. He finds him bent over an old book leafing through it and waving his wand to remove varied hexes and whatever it had in there. He almost jumps out of his skin when Sirius passes another page and the book starts wailing. Sirius hits it against the table once, twice for it to shut up and let him proceed with his work.

"Sirius," he asks after a moment, "how many books are in here?"

Sirius looks up at him and smiles crookedly in a sort of '_welcome home_' kind of grin, his atrocious mood shifting a little.

"No idea," Sirius says, smiling faintly at him. "Almost all of the shelves on the faces north and south over the walls were magically expanded years ago. It's been a long time. There's no telling what's been shoved in there since."

Remus raises both eyebrows.

"That's bloody dangerous," he says. "There's a reason we weren't allowed to do magic in the Library at Hogwarts, ad was strictly forbidden in the Restricted Section."

Grimoires are volatile enough on their own. Some written charms and hexes can take effect when under some amount of magic, and can become dangerous if left unattended or build up for a long time. And this sort of thing could happen accidentally. If on top of that you add books that have been purposefully cursed… There's no telling what the effects of storing them in a magically expanded space might be, especially these sorts of grimoires. The library practically reeks of Dark magic. He remembers Sirius once telling him that one every three books in this house had some kind of dark or dubious content.

Sirius shrugs. "It's been like this for ages," he says. "The wards on the shelves keep the books fairly quiescent."

Lupin tries not to think about the sorts of magic that must necessarily have been involved in keeping thousands of books on Dark magic _'fairly quiescent'_. Most magic books take on a life of their own after a while, especially under circumstances like these, and suppressing them is not easily done. And then they retaliate when removed from their magical confinement.

"If you say so," he murmurs.

"It's fine, Moony," Sirius says, with a self-assurance you can only feel if you are Sirius Black. "But don't touch anything, though." he recommends. "It's not really safe for anyone who isn't family."

"Can I at least sit down?" Remus asks, trying to keep some of the sarcasm out of his voice. The library has gone from interesting to creepy faster than you realize insulting a hippogriff is a bad idea.

"Go ahead." Sirius gestures vaguely at a chair. Remus eyes it; it is heavy, ornately-carved ebony with light inlaid wood, it looks hideously uncomfortable.

So instead he looks around amused. He notices his friend has been using a second heavy-set exemplar of _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ with golden lettered covers to lever a ladder. He goes to a pile Sirius has nearby and looks curiously, _Famous Fire Eaters, Fifteenth Century Fiends, Magick Most Evile__... he pauses for a moment. He is fairly certain this one is amongst the Forbidden Index from the Ministry. This one cannot be considered a Defense book not even by the wildest stretch of imagination. It is about applying the Dark arts. And it is rare, only a couple left that it is known. Hogwarts is said to have one, and probably the Ministry itself. And now it turns out there was one lurking in the Private collection of the Blacks. _

_They also have__ Moste Potente Potions, Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes__ and _**_Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré mes Pieds_**_1_. Sirius catches him looking through the pile and taps his knuckles with his wand in warning leaving there a green spot.

"I must put a '_Don Not_ _Touch_' sign over those." Sirius says. "They attract people like flies to honey."

"Don't do that!" Remus complains. "You could've hexed my fingers off. And what would Moody say then?"

"Moody isn't here," Sirius returns. "and if he were he would die of a heart attack; either that or his paranoia would reach unbearable levels." he lifts his wand in warning as Remus makes to ignore his warning and keep looking through the pile.

"Ok, ok. Do not touch." he says. "I can see they are quite… _unorthodox_ books. But what have _Sites of Historical Sorcery __and__ Sonnets of a Sorcerer__ of dangerous is beyond me."_

_"__It is not the book per se…" Sirius says rolling his eyes. "All those gave traces of hexes when I removed them from their rightful place. A couple of them were on the floor. They're not even supposed to be in this floor… Anyways, my git of a brother almost hexed himself irreparable with that one." Remus thinks he is talking about __Sonnets of a Sorcerer__, which makes the incident kind of amusing._

_"__Ah, I see…"_ he says. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Only place these old school books in those empty shelves," he answers. "We used to have the anti-muggle propaganda there, and I took these down from my old room. We are creating a corner for manuals and schoolbooks, for the children you know… if they have to come here again."

"Hermione will like it." Remus comments.

_Remus soon notices that with those books from sections already taken care of (A's and B's) they have more than one edition at a time, and sometimes you can see the evolution of the book trough time. From __Advanced Rune Translation__ to __Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration __and _**_Very Old Scribbles and How to Interpret Them._**

"This used to be my favourite place in the whole house when I was younger. Much younger. "Sirius comments after a while, breaking the silence. "No-one came here for long, and when they did they soon left me to my own devices."

"Never imagined you as the kind to look for peace and quiet." Remus comments idly. While placing a heavy _Runes Dictionary_ beside _Curses and Counter-Curses_. Sirius snorts.

"Father was proud of good little me, because I dedicated my time to studying and always knew my lessons. Unlike Regulus, he always was where he wasn't supposed to, you know? I don't think he ever realized that this way I managed to avoid tea parties."

Remus chuckles.

"Don't laugh. And you are not the only one who likes reading." Sirius huffs. "maybe the only one that _loves_ books, but I do like them too…"

"Books don't ask questions." says Remus sharply.

"Yes. Books don't judge, and most importantly, don't expect anything from you either. "Sirius says dead-serious. "This is a good place to think and be left alone with your thoughts. Only Reg ever knew I came here when stressed. I had forgotten how quiet it was."

Remus doesn't comment, but notes that the comment sounds more affectionate when he uses his brother's name like that. More so that when he calls him _Reggie_, maybe because he always manages to make the latter sound mocking.

Between their quarrels, they actually manage to talk. One of the two comes around and they behave like nothing ever happened, like years of insults and resentment spilt over a few minutes haven't changed anything. It is during their little chats, totally spontaneous and out of the blue, that sometimes they can see in each other the kids they once were.

Regulus finds himself dusting the leather-bound covers of an old enormous book, its silvery letters shine faintly in the dim light. He looks at it closely, reads once again the letters engraved in the black covers and he half-smiles, half-grimaces as he lets himself remember.

"I still remember Uncle Alphard menacing me with this book when I misbehaved." he throws over his shoulder at Sirius. Sirius turns around, and he doesn't need to look at the covers to know which book Regulus has stumbled upon. He smirks.

"That's right. And you said the drawings were insurmountably disgusting." he chuckles. "You howled like you had had you hands ironed."

"They were pretty disgusting." he opens the book and let his eyes wander through its pages. "And they still are."

"Still scared?" asks Sirius. "Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?"

"I was never scared, I simply found them revolting." he answers, sounding slightly offended.

"You wouldn't have if you wouldn't have been that much of a nosy brat." he replies.

"I wasn't being nosy; the book was in your room in the first place." says Regulus, looking at Sirius meaningfully.

"Because that's not the very definition of nosy." Sirius retorts.

"What was it doing there anyway?" his brother asks. "We weren't supposed to be reading that."

"You know perfectly well that the most certain way of get someone to do something is by forbidding them to do so. Of course father told me not to take a look at the book, so I had to get a hold of it." and by that he means that he had been told not to come near that book, but being as he was, he did.

"A fact is still a fact, and that book shouldn't have ever been in your room." says Regulus, smirking.

"Exactly, but what were you doing in my room?" asks Sirius with a raised eyebrow.

"Honestly? I don't remember." says Regulus as his eyes return to the cover of the book. Then he places the huge volume back on the shelf. "I just hope you got severely punished for that stunt."

"Yes, sure." mutters Sirius as he returns to placing books on the shelves. "No, father though it signalled my intelligence my early interest in the subject… disembowelling and so was _so_ cool." he says with a nasal voice. "Almost congratulates me for sneaking it from under his nose successfully."

"Comes to show how sane we are here."

::::::::::::::

By the end of September Molly and Arthur leave Grimmauld place and return to The Burrow, leaving the two brothers alone with Lupin, who although officially living with them, spends great stretches of time doing jobs for the Order out of London.

Time proceeds without much difference, from one day to another, without anything new to distract them from their lives. And as they go on with their tedious tasks around the library they let their minds wander, onto thought they never allowed themselves. And they pass from section D to section E. And life goes on. Even in the utter silence that engulfs Grimmauld Place, Mrs Black finds excuses to shriek and howl into the darkness; and her sons just find it easier everyday to ignore them, muffled out by the wooden walls of the big vaulted room.

"Sometimes I wonder how poor Uncle Alphard was able to live with his sister for so long." Sirius blurts out, like he has been thinking about it for a long time now. Regulus turns to him, eyeing him questioningly.

"His sister, that was our mother." he corrects him.

"That's exactly my point. I know her, unfortunately, very well and it's still a wonder how the hell did he put up with her." he says. "Willingly! He never got along with Uncle Cygnus, but instead managed to live with mother without completely losing his mind."

"Well, after all she practically raised him. Perhaps he felt he owed her something." says Regulus. "Perhaps she wasn't always like that." Sirius shackes his head.

"Perhaps. But is still highly unlikely."

"Well, that may be the reason why he spend so much time travelling around the world… to avoid mother." Regulus says.

"That much was obvious. How did he die?" Sirius asks. And that Sirius has deigned ask after so many years startles Regulus.

"Who?" he asks confused.

"Uncle Alphard, you dolt!" Regulus nods, after all Sirius wasn't there when their favourite relative died. And he definitely couldn't be asking about any other relative.

"Peacefully." Regulus' voice is barely a whisper. "He went to sleep and never really woke up. He'd been ill for a time. It was a 24 of December." Sirius nods. "He was already ill when you left us." and then, after a moment of silence, added; "It was Crab's illness2."

"What else could it be? It's the rotten plague of this family." he says, and frowns angrily at the spine of the closest book.

Almost all the portraits of the house show demarcated faces, pale skins and sickly frailness. Many a member of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black has been ailed from the same incurable thinness, a gauntness somewhat bordering on sick as they became old. Any of them would be lucky to grow old beyond seventy, and not just because of the war. None of their uncles had, nor their father. Their mother had succumbed to mental illness far before the physical one had had time to prey on her body. Luckily they seemed to have evaded sharing her fate for now.

If they were to be realistic, they had very few chances of avoiding the flesh-eating ailment of his ancestors. Crab's Illness is cruel, unpredictable until the moment it makes itself known. That Uncle Alphard had succumbed to the all consuming illness was of little surprise.

"He looked very weak in his last months…" Regulus says, almost talking to himself.

"I wish I could have said goodbye." whispers Sirius, a hint of regret in his voice. "If there ever was someone in here who deserved it, it was Uncle Alphard."

"He never blamed you Sirius." says Regulus suddenly, stopping his thumbing through the book he has dislodged. "I think he blamed mother, he avoided her after your departure. More than usual, that is. They barely spoke anymore."

Silence rings for a moment in the air. Sirius' surprise that he alone had managed to disrupt a siblings' relationship that had withstood so many trials was visible. And then, the shadow of a smile appears on Regulus face.

"She was so mad after the reading of the will. She spent months complaining." he chuckles.

"Of that, I'm certain." Sirius says contemptuously.

"She blasted him off the tapestry two days after his burial." explains the younger brother. "I wish she hadn't; but I couldn't have stopped her from doing it." Sirius turns to his brother.

"If there was, still is, one certain thing in this world… is that stopping mother once she made up her mind up about something was impossible. There was nothing you could have done or said that would have stopped her. Keep that in mind. Her mind didn't bow to reason anymore. It stopped doing so long ago." and he turns around and keeps cleaning, considering the conversation over.

Sirius is angry. Walburga Black, the one and only Mrs Black, the only one who'd ever bear that name with the cool arrogance only a born black can display, had been very close to being the downfall of them all. It didn't take a genius to realize. She'd been the rotten apple that had infested the healthy ones surrounding her. His mother had long ago spiralled out of control, but the family simply wouldn't acknowledge that she was in fact borderline psychotic, and had, since Sirius' earliest memories of her, very little grip on reality. She saw the world in black and white and cruel punishment the only response to be meted out to anyone not completely submissive.

Only once they'd taken her away. Once she'd had one memorable attack in public. She'd shrieked and menaced to curse Avery's silly vain wife. Of course they'd blamed it on Sirius for enraging her so much beforehand. But she went for a sort of rest cure, as they called it. Sent her to a very expensive place, where they fed her lots of potions that probably weren't entirely legal. And when she came home, she wasn't quite so… so angry.

But that's it, because denial was so much easier. What the eyes don't see the heart doesn't grieve over.

But Sirius saw, he always had seen. And it terrifies him. He still doesn't know what he fears more; the slow deterioration and eventually painful death by crippling illness, or the slow but sure loss of mental faculties that he'd seen enact its terrible choke over the late Mrs Black.

Maybe that's why he defies the odds so much, lives his life on edge. Maybe it he proves he's different enough, if he beats the chances over and over, he'll be different enough to escape unscathed his genetic inheritance. Or if he doesn't, if he fails, he knows it'll be quick, and it'll stop the terrible waiting.

Sometime he wishes for it. But then again he doesn't, and he's too stubborn to forsake life when he's fought tooth and nail to keep this battered old hide. He's too honourable to abandon those who still depend on him. He's to brave to fear taking a chance on life. And so he waits for the turning of the tide, that will take him away from the void once more.

* * *

1 by Malecrit. (Canon) it is traduced as: "Alas I have transfigured my feet".

2 Referred to cancer, as an archaic way for wizarding folk to talk about it. Wizarding Medicine evolved separately from that of muggles and thus they do not speak in the same terms of common illnesses.


	15. Chapter 14: Instability

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen - Instability**

The winter approaches fast. It is cold outside and the few leaves the thin trees outside still had fell, all brown and muddied over the street. London suffered a daily downpour by the end of summer, and the fall is rather wet. London is permanently covered by a mantle of grey heavy clouds. And Grimmauld Place nº 12 grows colder and darker with every passing day. At some point of September, Sirius contacts the children through the flu network. Regulus never discovers what they have been talking about, but afterwards Sirius seems in a worse mood than he was before. God forbid they two actually talk about something, it might upset the balance of the universe. It doesn't seem to grow old.

By the end of October they are still working in the library. It is hard mind-numbing work that keeps their hands occupied and tires them enough as not to start dwelling on their sad, sad life conditions. Neither of them is used to inactivity, neither mental nor physical… they should, but it doesn't seem to be in their nature.

They start working in the basement level of said library by mid-November. The floor is of bare stone, black marble in fact, and the carved bookshelves are thicker, older and dustier than they've been in the entire house. They are glass panels to protect the ancient and rare books from dust and deterioration. The rows of books seem ever-lasting, and do not only occupy the walls, but stretch to cover all available space but a relatively small area directly under the ceiling vault up there, in which the family crest appears in inlaid marble of different colours. By the corners of the large room, small separate rooms contain those ancient parchments that can't see the light of day, under risk of disintegrating, most so old the Ministry would salivate over the thought of having any. They do not take proper care of their sizable collection in the Ministry, and they lack any truly interesting documents. That the Blacks do have them, means they have to be careful in their handling of them and uncountable more hours spent in the semi-darkness that reaches the bowels of the old library.

Molly is no longer there anymore. She left at the beginning of November.

Some mornings Sirius locks himself up at the Library archives, he works there by himself. He can accede either from a secret passage behind a portrait of Sirius V (1) on the north study wall or from a small steeped spiral staircase from a corner of the top floor of the library and opens right up in the middle of the Achieve room with a round hole on the floor. They have to be both opened with the heavy old golden seal from his father's that Regulus stopped him from giving away whilst almost having a nervous breakdown. He goes over loads of papers and scratched figures in the hours he spends there, fixing figures and numbers and some other things that he doesn't tell anyone about, because honestly, no-one wants to know. It is boring, thank you very much; and more so, to Regulus. If there's one part of the traditional family duties he can't stand the mere thought of, is legal paperwork, which ironically is the only one which Sirius doesn't find as disagreeable in its numbing lack of hypocrisy. At the very least it doesn't require for him to speak with anyone. All is black and white over a piece of parchment as you let facts speak for themselves, and there is no problem that can't be confronted as some kind of puzzle.

His interest starts when he stumbles across piles bank bills from Gringott's strewn over his father's study. There's also a varied assortment of other legal paperwork and years worth of delays in estate management. Walburga Black didn't touch a single scrap of paper for as long as she was widowed; and because Orion black was simply anal, there was no-one paid to do it for her. At first he is reluctant need to straighten his financial (possibly quite alarming) troubles yet. He is supposed to be on the run, and not crawling through piles of parchment. Even if of course there is a strong possibility that the Goblins of Gringotts wouldn't care. The House of Black is one of the major fortunes they have. Sirius alone has a more than considerable fortune amassed thanks to the generous donation of Uncle Alphard's personal fortune.

It is not exactly that they are losing money, because they aren't. But they aren't getting all they are due from their investments. But no-one has managed these investments in at least twenty years. Without sweating too much, it is easy to see they are being robbed blind by some individual working in Pioneering Potions, in which the Blacks are the owners of two thirds of the business. This is something with a readily available solution if only he could get _out_. But he can't so he pastes a sticky-note "review later" and dumps it into an ever-growing pile in one corner which should be termed the _Dreadful Pile of Problems to be Solved upon Being Declared Innocent_. Also, possibly _Judgment Day Pile_. Additionally there are of course, the tax returns. Because whilst the Blacks, because of historical reasons are exempt from paying property taxes, the Ministry has been a bit greedy and taxing _people no longer alive _for their income tax. Take uncle Alphard for example, he's deader than dead.

Which means he's got his work cut out for him. There is a line between honest and dumb. On top of that Sirius is hell bent of getting their collective business in order so he can definitively dispose of the shadiness that the use of legal loopholes historically brings to the Blacks. Never be said Sirius clings to tradition.

Fortunately for him it results in less of a nightmare that he had anticipated. He still remembers quite well how their coding system work and Orion Black was so conscientious that every last detail has been recorded somewhere. The coding system is complex, and not based on magical encrypting to avoid other magical families possibly being able to decipher it. As a child he learnt it from his father, before he father gave up on his prospective future as his successor. And Regulus didn't want anything to do with any of that. He still doesn't, he doesn't quite care where money comes from as long as there is some.

He also gets his long-fingered hands on all papers concerning disownments. Not his of course… he can't because it has never been official. The only mention to it is referred to in the will, regarding the inheritance of their parents' personal belongings, and he cannot legally have that revoked nor is he interested. But when it really matters, where the family money and properties are involved; their will to disown him was never really more than pure-blood politics.

The Blacks are too old and too up-rooted in their lands, simply declaring him disowned is a fruitless venture. The only way to break the natural laws of inheritance is death. A blood-contract established Sirius as the only heir, the very moment he was born, and nothing can change that. The same way, it establishes Regulus as the second-in-line to inheritance, just in case anything happened. Now Regulus is the official heir, because Sirius just stepped up to occupy his father's place in the estate's eyes. Yes the Estate is practically sentient. His parents, better no, his mother… couldn't take his birth-right from him. He was the first-born son, and therefore the only member of the family who sould never be disowned. Additionally a disownment could be revoked if there was no-one else to inherit in the male line, or if the current baron (2) wanted to. He assembled all of the scattered documents he could find on Andromeda, including _her_ disownment and the shares of her assigned dowry (which she never received) from the funds of the Norfolk Branch of the Blacks, to which his mother belonged. They appeared amongst Death Certificates and obituaries, as well as some letters from the auror taskforce, along with all the paper trail concerning the uncountable relatives they had, and the Black clan made itself responsible for, which the Family kept religious registry of. Uncle Alphard's disownment was also bogus, because he was already dead, and alos more of a social faux-pas. He topped his ever-growing pile of papers with it, in wait until he could ask for copies of her marriage certificate. He also started assembling everything there was on Regulus so in the eventuality that it was necessary (and possible) to bring them forth to declare him officially alive.

Just not to be idle, he also writes down the grants that will recognize Nymphadora as part of the family, and hopefully keep her safe from the dratted wards and her clumsiness. This doesn't concern the Ministry at all and is archived correctly when he finishes, which means less pile. Not that he believes that it is important per se, but it involves money, and it was something _she_ has to choose to give up. It is too, a symbolic gesture that to him more than he lets on. Because whether he likes it or not, and he struggles with it a lot, even more than he does with his time in Azkaban as of late: he _is_ the Blacks. He can no longer say _they_. Now it is either _me_ or _us_. His word is final, legally speaking, and was he declared innocent; he could easily have _Bellatrix_ disowned. He has the power to define the position of the Blacks in the _war_ this time around. He has already done so.

To turn his back on everything this means, now that he can actually change things to the benefit of someone he cares about, would be admitting defeat. And Sirius does never admit defeat.

As far as Regulus is concerned, he can no longer have loyalty conflicts anymore. He can both stay true to his family, the position in life he was raised to accept, and what little there is to his conscience. Regulus spends most of his free time to use recollecting old photos scattered in the different rooms. He doesn't make distinctions. He has much less problem accepting all of their relatives as they are, even if he does not agree with them. He always saw their little world in infinite shades of grey. And takes all the contradictions born inside as a part of the whole; he doesn't try to shun all the craziness because it is a part of him too, and also has never had strength enough to try. So he takes images of everyone and makes sure they are safely away in his room; just in case Sirius decides to _clean__ them up_ again and he finds he cannot remember the anymore a few years down the lane. If he lives that long. He doesn't think so though, because they're burnt in his mind's eye with love and hatred alike.

Of course Sirius' mood does not improve in the following month, his mood swings becoming more and more pronounced and unpredictable; and therefore, far more difficult to suffer gracefully, even for those who know him.

Regulus tries repeatedly to apologise quite unsuccessfully, not that he admits knowing to what exactly he is apologising. Every time that he touches the issue Sirius dismisses by simply ignoring it, and like a dog catching scent of something particularly unpleasant he when he has that intent in mind as soon as he enters a room, which is making everything absurdly difficult.

Although the hours of light are ever shorter, somehow the days in Grimmauld Place seem longer. The biting cold goes from bad to worse, mainly because they don't use the fireplaces much, they might be stuck. In the old lonely mansion the draft is starting to be unbearable. Snow comes early that year, and November there is the odd picture of London covered by the white blanket of snow.

They are thusly compelled to deal with the boiler's room. It is so far the dirtiest corner they have had to confront, left untouched because of Sirius' reluctance to come close to old Kreacher's cot. The small cramped room has a low ceiling, and is full of dirty rags that stink of rot and are full of bugs and creepy-crawlies. It still is a wonder that even a house-elf managed to live under the old rusty boiler.

They scrub, and polish and unclog and replace rusty bits of plumbing. And somehow they manage to turn on the heating system, even if by the end they're covered in soot as the spells tend to move the stuff around horribly. It is a little miracle that the boiler survives their admittedly amateur hands, the fact that the heating doesn't collapse after the first unsteady and reluctant minutes is even more astonishing. And the old boiler, magically powered, bombs heated water again in sufficient quantity to feel the heating conducts that run under the floorboards of the house. It only looses water now and then, it leads to daily visits to the boiler room to replenish the water tank and mop up the mess before they all wake up inside a freezer.

And that gives Regulus the perfect excuse to disappear for unspecified amounts of time, and avoid Sirius when he is grumpy, which is the case more and often than not. "I'm going to check the water level", and there he goes again. In the library they work in the darkest corners of the basement, they smell like humidity despite the dry air provided by and impressive amount of preserving wards and heavy spell-work. Cobwebs have formed in some strange places, sometimes attaching the books to the shelves, sometimes attaching glass doors closed. Most lamp-lights are broken.

Sirius seems determined not to talk to anyone. Regulus sometimes swears he can feel his vocal chords drying up inside of his throat as a plant for lack of watering. If this keeps up, he muses, his voice will become as raspy as Sirius' for lack of use. Hi boredom peaks and he even stoops to going all the way to the entry hall just to greet the members of the Order that drop by. If you add insult to injury Sirius' mood progresses from the silent punishment phase to an irritating incessant needling.

It starts as a constant reminder of his for-life status as _momma's boy and resident spoiled brat_. Being their mother's favourite, is the first of his many faults in his brother's eyes. And despite the deceptive jealousy a stranger might've read in the taunting words hauled his way, Regulus still manages to hear the insult in it. He proceeds to remind him of every bad choice he's ever made, of every moment of weakness of spirit, of every time he bowed his head in acquiescence of something he didn't believe in, of every time he hid his head in the sand like an ostrich.

And Regulus doesn't need anyone to remind him of thing's he already knows, he's not precisely amnesic.

Regulus' anger, long abated and mostly controlled starts to boil over. Anger at himself for being as stupid as Sirius' always said, for proving him right. Anger at Sirius for his thoughtless ability to hurt those who love him with razor-sharp words. Anger at his mother for making him who he is, towards his ancestors for making his world so narrow and his life so damned difficult. But mostly angry with himself. Those are feelings he's avoided for decades; a confrontation with himself he's avoided having for over twenty years. Now Sirius is forcing him, pushing him until the point he'll surely break. Surely they'll break each other.

It is an anger he is unfamiliar with. He's always been very comfortable in his own skin, and despite all his own contradictions, has avoided having any kind of identity crisis. He's always been able to differentiate what he wants from what his duty points him towards. The first only to be had if the second allows it. And after small lapse in the turmoil that is the life in the Most Noble House of Black, after believing he could have it all, he saw his world order topple over. He'd believed in the Greater Good, he truly had idealised it even. So when you couldn't have what you wanted wanted, you couldn't follow orders, you couldn't cling to righteousness, what did you have left? Honour, understood by different standards maybe; not measured in blood, for certain.

And he hates it because he is no Sirius, who seems to revel in his inner struggles to fuel him on rage, always to push forwards. Sirius' had a long time to get used to it... Instead it eats Regulus inside out, and takes out of him every productive thought.

In his quest for some kind of twisted psychological revenge, Sirius taunts him. Speaks casually and hurls hurtful observation his way, until Regulus grimaces as if the blow had been physical. Harshness surrounded in deceptive cordiality. And it hurts ten times more. In the rare occasions when there is someone else present, he finds himself seated across an even playful version of his brother while he has to smile and take it. He could almost, if he closed his eyes, imagine that there was no estrangement between them, that there was no resentment… that Sirius could be forgiving. But he is not. And once they are alone, Sirius' banter becomes less and less playful, and becomes the irritating needling that he has come to associate with the guilty prickling of his own conscience.

::::::::::::::

They are climbing up the stairs. Mrs Black has just shut up for the evening. Silence vibrates once again in the house like a living entity.

"It is almost a pleasant surprise that she has found it in herself to shout at you too, the perfect son she should know" Sirius says almost conversationally; finally giving him some kind of conversation, only the kind that hurts. So Regulus knowing where this is most likely to be going doesn't say anything for a change. "Were it not that I have to hear her voice, of course. Wonderful how some people change from one favourite person to another with such ease…"

"Sirius, this is getting ridiculous." says Regulus with a measured tone. "Can't you just let things be? She is dead."

"Oh, but it's just the truth. I wonder… had you known you'd end up like this; would you have ever sought her approval? She looked at you as if you were all her hopes bundled up and tied with a jaunty bow."

"Now, you know perfectly well that that's not true." says Regulus as he turns around, coming to face Sirius. "I was never the favourite, in fact, hadn't you been all rebellious and managed somehow to finally crack her up you'd still..."

"Now that is a lie if I've ever heard one!" he says without even trying not to sound too angry.

"And that's where you are wrong!" Regulus hisses. "You are so blind! She adored you! She had hopes for you, and you disappointed her, and then she hated you because she hated that you chose some strangers over her!"

"She didn't adore anyone. She adored what she wanted us to become. She loved and idea of us." he bits back angry, grey eyes glittering in the half-dark of the deserted house. "Not us. Never us."

"No, she adored you. You were everything that a Black should be... not like me."

They look at each other defiantly, daring the other to say something. Truth is Sirius is more of a Black than Regulus is, if you compare the classic family traits that have been praised in the respectable and crucial Blacks. Sirius has a problem with authority, because he never bows in front of anyone; he would've made a great leader had he ever had the chance. Some will tell Regulus is as a Black should be: aristocratic, conservative always ambitious, because he used to ambition recognition when Sirius outshone him and he felt left out. These qualities are praised in the pure-blooded circles. Any of them should be proud for it. Not Regulus. Paradoxically, the Blacks, the most rich and ancient of all wizarding English families are not renowned for that. Although always regarded as the epitome of the perfect pureblood, they are most definitely not like that. Always quick to anger, never bothering to hide what they feel or think about someone out of principle, fierce in their loyalties, unyielding in their hatred. Those are the true Blacks; the ones that pushed through centuries of wars and strife, always making the bold movement, the decisive movement. Always daring to make the first move in order to have the initiative, always doing anything and everything to see their goals achieved. Regulus has never had that passion that has lead the family through everything, which has the strength prudence doesn't have.

"Always sick, always weaker, always behind you, in everything!" hisses Regulus bitterly; vomiting like bile all his resent and anger from ever since he was a boy. Sirius looks at him oh-so-coldly.

"In this world there is no room for self pity." his voice is cutting as a blade.

"You didn't realise, did you?" Regulus is glaring right back, spilling all the words that have never been said. "You were too blind to even see the truth, too busy being a rebel to realise what was going on even if it was right under your nose! Too blind to see you sound just like her!"

Sirius' gaze becomes murderous, and his eyes narrow. "I don't know why you complain, after all me being _all rebellious and_ _such_ gained you quite a privileged position, didn't it?" their hands have come to grasp their wands strongly.

"Privileged? How could I ever become the favourite, but as a substitute one?" his words are resentful, fed with spite since early childhood, always seeing his goals two steps too far away from him and his short little legs. "I was never good enough. Even after you left _Regulus was never good enough_. Because he just wasn't Sirius, and Sirius would have done it better, had he wanted to. No matter how hard he tried to get good grades, to be a good son, to do what he was supposed to do."

"See. That's your problem, always trying to be on everyone's good graces." Sirius snipes. "Well, let me tell you something, something you ought to have learnt a long time ago... and you'd better learn once and for all: you can't be on everyone's best graces." Regulus is breathing hard and has to fight the impulse to cover his ears. Sirius only continues relentlessly. "You'll always do something that will put you in a bad position at someone's eyes. My choices shouldn't have put me into _my_ family bad graces... because they were not all really my fault, but they did, and I've been consequent with my actions, perhaps it's time you start being consequent with yours."

"All I've ever wanted was to have a family, a normal one! A brother whom I could turn to and rely on, not one I had to watch for over my shoulder, and enjoys telling me how much of a failure I am. A mother that didn't use me and a father that was kind enough to look my way from time to time." a chandelier blew up nearby. Sirius looks down at him with a sneer.

"You are more dramatic than I thought ever possible. You've outdone yourself." another chandelier blows up, and this one is Sirius' doing. "I don't remember ever telling you that you were a failure. By my standards you aren't, really. The saddest part is that you interpret that all on your own. What is truly pitiful, though is someone who is a failure by his own standards, sees himself as that and won't ever do anything about it. That's a failure!" Regulus cringes as if the blow had been physical. "You were everyone's favourite in the family, and outside too!" Sirius says. "For everyone you ever seemed to care about. You ought to have been happy! And you're so messed up!"

"The favourite? Sirius, I was always the other Black boy. At home and at School! I was Sirius' brother, I was the other Black, I was the one who spend seven years being called 'Sirius, oh you are not Sirius, my mistake', even when you were no longer there. Amongst our parent's friends I was the favourite because they found me more manageable. I was more convenient, not more admirable in any aspect! I certainly don't want that kind of estimation!"

"Well, perhaps if you hadn't put all your efforts in hating me you would have realised that you were being used, and could have put an end to it, instead of allowing it to continue!"

"And what would have become of me?" Regulus exclaims irate. "You had everything I ever wanted, and just threw it down the window, how was I supposed to react?"

"That doesn't excuse you for being blind as a bat and believing all the lies that mother hissed through her lying teeth." he punctuates his words with a bony long finger on his brother's chest. "Being stupid enough to look for attention among people who you knew would use you. Being stupid enough... as to join the Death Eaters. I bet you were even proud at the moment." a silver flash leaves Sirius' wand and crashes on the wall by Regulus' right, brushing past him. He glares at Sirius there is true hatred in his eyes. "What an honour! Being able to kiss his disgusting feet, and grovel before him like a mere servant! How old were you? 16? 17? What would have father said had he known about that part of the _honour_?" another flash crashes against the opposite wall, this time coming from Regulus' wand, and passing dangerously close to Sirius ear.

"You know nothing about it!" cries the younger brother. "You have no idea how it was! To have to stand on you own two feet in front of both both mother and Bellatrix. How is to have to agree to everything they say, out of fear! All the peer pressure. They were killing people for that, Sirius!"

"That is no excuse. _This_ will not earn you forgiveness. What can you say? That virtue was not convenient at the time? That you failed because you were scared?"

"I know I did my fair share of mistakes. To err is human Sirius!" he shouts at him, another flash escapes Sirius' wand, this one hits right next to Regulus _lame_ hand.

"This is not about doing mistakes and then asking for forgiveness anymore. You should be capable of avoiding them!"

"And you are one to talk! Because your life is so empty of mistakes! In your life you've never made a wrong turn. How could I have not realised! You're God!" sarcasm is all over his words, eyes glittering ominously. Regulus shoots another purposefully badly-aimed jinx to Sirius which hits a portrait causing them to start squirming in their frames. "Boys, behave yourself! If you want to kill each other aim a little better! Go play outside!" shouts old Antigona from her frame, with all the authority the old crone can muster. All the portraits are talking at the same time. Both Sirius and Regulus ignore them completely.

"At least I can say that I was not, am not, and never will be anyone's puppet!" he hisses, as only a Black by name can manage to do. "That I fought the battle I chose, the battle I wanted to fight, not the one they chose for me because some thought it convenient."

"You want to know the truth? The reason I did it? Because you won't like it, Sirius. Partly I did what I did because there was no one who cared as to _tell_ me that it was a mistake." a hex hits the wall right over Regulus head.

"Keep telling that to yourself and you may even believe it"- each word was more cutting that the next.

"Believe what you want. But it would' been nice that someone had handed down some advise which didn't lead me to do something they wanted me to do for them, not because it was good for me. Not even you did. And one day you'll have to face that I wouldn't have done all those _stupid_ mistakes were not for you. Because you weren't there, where you? And then you can start preaching and judging, Sirius!" he is angry and yelling, and for once, the Black temper comes alive in Regulus. "You should have been there, because it was your duty, to me and to us!" Sirius looks at him with contempt. Then suddenly turns around and leaves, the dark tunic billowing behind him. "Damn it Sirius! You know as well as I do your place was not mine to take, and you left us all with no choice!" yells as he smashes his fist against the wall, hissing later in pain, as he nurses the knuckles that he knows will later on turn an ugly shade of purple. The portraits keep exclaiming themselves in scandalized voices.

"Quiet!" Regulus roars as he too, turns away and leaves, his head bowed down, eyes trained on the faded patterns of the rugs as he treads upon them.

Would his brother ever understand? Or was he too proud and strong to understand weakness too? He hasn't been lying when he's told him that he'd needed him, what the hell, he still needs him in his life. Maybe more than ever. Because Regulus is dependent, and always needs someone familiar to rely on and keep his sanity. He will never know how lonely had he felt after his departure, nor how he used to pray silently every night for him to come back and lift that horrible crushing responsibility from his unprepared shoulders. He'll never know how difficult it'd been to withstand all that disdain in Sirius' eyes every time their paths crossed. He's never known, and probably will never know because he won't tell him.

All he can do when bad comes to worse, and the dams between them break is hurl accusations and let out the despair he's let build up so he isn't the only one hurt by awful half-truths.

He goes straight to his room. He closes the door with a bang and sits on his unmade bed. His whole body reflects defeat and dejection, his anger and sadness at the same time. He shuts his eyes tight. He looks at his nightstand, and he finds the locket Sirius gave him for his birthday. He grabs it and opens it. He looks at the two children in the picture. Smirking both, they look both so young, they still appear innocent, although he knows they already are not. They even look happy. Why things can't be like that again? Even if it only was a façade to hide a world of turmoil.

A tear escapes his eyes, but he quickly dries it. He's even surprised himself. He'd expected himself to want to smash things, to submerge himself in a silent bout of depression even. But he's never ever expected tears to come to his eyes. A Black doesn't cry, a Black doesn't show any emotion whatsoever. And if he has something left, is that he is a Black, so he better act like one.

Sirius' feet instead lead him to his father's study. It still isn't clean, but he liked to go there when he wants to think. It is a place of quiet. He strides up to the bay window. He feels the bile rising up his throat, but he isn't sure if it is only because of his brother. Don't be mistaken he is mad at his brother, because he reminds him of _them_ too much. But he's first and foremost mad at the sick fate that keeps pushing _them_ back up in his face.

He's mad at his parents; the ones that were supposed to love him, to at least care. He can't avoid blaming them for everything that's ever happened to him. To them. Although he despises himself for that too for, self-pity is such a common shameful thing to feel.

It starts with the Blacks. They are not cruel in ways that one can categorise easily. Mild physical abuse, perhaps, sometimes Mrs Black punished her sons if they disobeyed. I was rather stronger emotional abuse. Always quick to let them know when they had chances of becoming the least favourite son. They were proud of them or disappointed; they rewarded or punished, but they never loved them. And Sirius cannot not understand how Regulus still craved affection from people like that. He wishes things were clear-cut: the Blacks were the Blacks, and him, Sirius, was Sirius. As if by some genetic quirk he just wasn't one of the family. He's spent his life trying to skate on the surface, to take things lightly and easily, be as flippant as possible, even cruel: cruel, because he is a Black, after all and can't afford to get hurt anymore than he already is.

His world view has been coloured by his childhood, by _them_. The lessons he learned at his parent's knees and the subsequent rebellions changed how he treats people and how he thinks of himself.

Regulus and Sirius, used to be close; and Sirius liked Reg, except for the part in which Regulus was always a little pest. It had been Regulus and him against the world, or what little of the world that they knew, the complicity and the shared little secrets they hid from their mother. But once they started to stray further and further apart, there was no stopping it, until they didn't even know each other anymore.

He slams his fist on the table in anger. Sirius has always had every reason to be supremely self-confident. He is highly intelligent, magically powerful, witty, charming, and had been once incredibly good looking. Combine these with Sirius's fairly typical Gryffindor bravery, and it becomes easy to imagine that Sirius never faced any demons of self-doubt.

But he does. Very often, in truth; he is just very good at hiding it. And he keeps replaying his brother's words in his head. He'd said he wouldn't have done many a thing because he wasn't there. He'd accused him of abandoning him. Not that he didn't know that. He'd always known he had abandoned Regulus to fend off for his own. But he'd had to make a choice, and he still would make the same choice once again if it was asked of him. It had been that or his life, or worse, his sanity. And his rational side told him that he had done that what was right at the moment, and that nothing would have changed even if he had stayed. After all, they both knew Regulus always did his best to do exactly the opposite of anything Sirius ever said.

He opens the window, despite the cold November air outside. The wind brushes his face, freezing his cheeks, nose and ears. He doesn't know why but he feels some kind of comfort in the cutting cold and the sound of the splattering of rain against the cobblestones.

::::::::::::::

Whenever a member of the Order comes by, they will only talk to Sirius. In fact, they will only find Sirius, because Regulus does his best to avoid them. The two or three times that he crosses paths with Lupin, they don't even cross a word. There are several tense meetings they both attend, and almost everyone is involved in the tense atmosphere that has suddenly descended upon the already cold, dreary Grimmauld Place.

Regulus spends uncountable hours on the library, but he isn't really cleaning anymore. Instead he submerges himself in the books of Dark Magic, looking for the most arcane knowledge, and looking into the more dusty dodgy books he can get his hands on to, and getting more and more frustrated by the day. Now and then he stares at the golden medallion in his bedroom and wishes he could throw it out the window and get rid of it. But that would mean touching it, and he doesn't like doing that. It is a source of endless frustration, but now that he doesn't talk to anyone, the frustration becomes unbearable. He hadn't spoken of his pursuit with anyone before, not even with Sirius, but now he can feel anguish coming out of it in dark waves. The worse is that when he thinks he knows the answer to the riddle that would finally unlock the mystery he finds another reason for disappointment.

Sirius spends uncountable hours in the study. He just sits on the high-backed armchair, facing the window and staring into the grey sky of London. He let his mind wander. In fact the only person he actually talks to was is Lupin. They simply talk aimlessly, about this and that, nothing extremely important, but he feels better afterwards. It is not too often either, because Remus is always away.

The problem Sirius has was that he wasn't exactly mad at his brother anymore. It was more the fact that he keeps replaying it all in his head, again and again, and he hates it, his inability to get over it. And he wishes he could make a decision; either come to detach himself from his brother already (he should have already done that if he thought about the practicalities), or be the bigger man and get over it and move on. He just isn't sure he's ever going to forgive him at all, much less forget anything from the list of aggravations he knows has become permanently engraved in his memory.

And there is his preoccupation with Harry too. He knows something is going to happen, he has that foreboding, that intuition, he just doesn't know what or when. He knows that the Death Eaters lines are rebuilt once more. They need no Snape to tell them that. At least those that, like him, have seen it all before. He knows that Voldemort has enrolled lots of other magical creatures, he is ready to strike, but he doesn't. In his eyes it is like big a chess game, the pieces positioned, players ready, and now it is time to move them. But they don't.

The main door of Grimmauld place opens silently, allowing the entrance of a gust of cold December wind. Remus Lupin enters the house and closes the door behind him. He crosses the hall silently and heads towards the first floor, he knows that Sirius won't be in the kitchen, he's never there these days. He climbs to the second floor and heads down the corridor to the study. There are chances he'd be there. He opens the study door slowly, and finds Sirius looking through the broad bay window. Remus approached him quietly.

"Sirius?" the grey-eyed man turns around and faces Lupin. His face shows a great sadness, like his soul is bearing a great burden. His mercury eyes are worried. "Are you Ok?" Sirius looks at him and shakes his head, as if indicating the futility of the question. But he speaks out loud nonetheless:

"I don't know if I'm all that of a good person." Remus doesn't seem disconcerted, he just pulls up a chair and sits down nearby. When you've had as much contact with Sirius as he has, you learn that the last thing you can expect him to do is to properly introduce a topic of conversation.

"I have forgotten too much," he says. "...of everything."

Remus shakes his head. "You know you'll have to give it time. You'll remember eventually..." Sirius makes a dismissing gesture with his hand and cuts him off.

"I'm not talking about memories," he cuts in. "just that I am a bitter bastard."

"When all this is over. It'll pass." Remus tries to sooth him, instinctually knowning that his friend's dark mood isn't going to go away soon.

"When this is over... _if_ this is over. If we make it. That alone doesn't make it sound like it'll pass, does it?" Sirius asks the air. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to see the bright side of things again ...at least now and then. I can't remember with detail any of the happy memories, and it gets worst the further back I go."

Remus settles in his chair, prepared to let Sirius continue with his depressed ramblings for a bit more. After all, it is not often that the proud man deigns himself to show anything but total normality. Comparatively speaking, of course. It is a step forward, that he talks about his troubles.

"But I remember with startling clarity all of the dead people." he continues. "Not when they were alive, but dead. The eyes are the worst. They stare up at me, and they're so _dead_. And the worst part is I should feel horrified, but I don't feel anything. That's the stuff of nightmares.

"This kind of thing is normal. It only makes you human." Remus says trying to avoid sounding too sympathetic. He is sorry for his friend. The war, the dead, the losses... they've all had fourteen long years to get over it, to come to terms with it. Sirius still hasn't, because despite probably being the strongest of them all, he hasn't got the chance.

"Being human is overrated." Remus throws him a perplexed sad stare. "You know... the worse is I can bring myself to care anymore. I'm not even bothered by all that... by them... I was never truly bothered by it. Even those that are my fault, I mean..."

And Remus knows what it means, and that he's not talking about James and Lily. No, he's talking about those he doesn't know. Because of course James and Lily still affect him, he is not enough of a fool to believe otherwise. No, but Sirius has done enough terrible things out of necessity to turn any lesser man mad.

"It even felt good sometimes. No, I thought it did. I didn't feel anything. There was no difference one way or another, dead or alive. It stopped mattering as long as no-one else I cared about took harm. And I lied to myself and told me that it mattered that it wasn't right. But I don't have the strength to keep lying to myself anymore..."

Remus moves to place a hand over Sirius' shoulder, which he shrugs away.

"At least you can bring yourself to worry about it." he says. "You want it or not that makes you human, Conflict makes us human."

"What it makes _me_ is a failure... No matter how hard I try I'm still them, and the worst part is I don't know if I want to fight it anymore... It is so tiring to fail over and over again."

::::::::::::::

Tension is palpable. Even Tonks starts to notice it and gets a bit worried. Sirius attitude isn't normal. Nor is it Regulus'. None of them is very loud, none of them is cheerful and free-spirited, but none of them normally act as if someone just died when there are people around.

She likes both brothers, she thinks that they are endearingly annoying with their sarcasm, and the badly dissimulated affection they work hard on making inconspicuous. Most people would tell you that they are both unbearable, that Sirius is a sarcastic bastard, and that Regulus is a cold and stiff git. But not to her, she actually finds them agreeable. You might think that being so loud and extroverted, and apparently careless she would clash with them. But she doesn't believe you can only get on with people just like you. She is a firm believer that all kinds of people can be good company as long as there are no bad feelings in the way. She was raised by her mother; and although she acts much more like her father, she is much more observant of the little signals that people would have given her credit for. She is also an auror, which has to count for something.

And that is why she finds their attitude so bothersome too. They won't even come down to supper when members of the Order stay there. And Remus is, looks utterly uncomfortable, and they almost don't speak anymore. It is making everyone more jumpy that they have right to be.

The kitchen is occupied by various members of the Order after the meeting that Friday evening. They are having a much improvised, not very well-cooked, dinner Lupin has thrown together. Molly didn't come; Tonks, Arthur and Bill did instead. As a result they are eating a rather raw steak, but they don't have much of a choice.

"Anyone knows by chance what's wrong with the Blacks?" asks Tonks out of the blue, eyeing Lupin insistently as he stares into a goblet of very good, very old dark wine they had extracted from the cellar.

"No idea." answers Bill. "But they've been quite odd lately."

"I wonder what's going on." comments Mr. Weasley with a thoughtful gaze as he looks upon the far end of the table where they usually sit down.

Remus sighs. And shakes his head, his lips curling into a rueful smile as his brow furrows in frustration.

"I've talked a couple of times with Sirius and still haven't gotten a straight answer." he says. "All I've managed to infer is that he's not in the mood for talking."

"That's weird. He's always in the mood for talking, at least if he can get away with bothering the heck out of someone." says Tonks.

"Except..." says Remus. "When something's bothering _him_."

"Perhaps he's worried about Harry..." suggests Arthur. "But we all are. Only he doesn't have anything else to worry about?"

"Sure." says Remus. "There's something else... this house is starting to fall all over his head." he says shaking his head.

"Understandable." Bill chimes in.

"But it doesn't explain what's gotten into them _both_."

"Maybe they got into a fight?" Bill suggests. "Charlie and I used to argue all the time about whatever..."

"Probably," says Remus. "It certainly sounds likely, with them being alone all the time. But I assure if it's been that, it hasn't been an argument about whatever... more like a hell of a row. That would also explain why Regulus has been avoiding everyone."

"A fight? About what exactly?" asks Bill. "It is not as if they can go and do anything."

"They seem to get along quite well." says Tonks. "Why should they fight about?"

"No-one knows exactly, although I might have a vague idea..." Remus says.

"So?" she says expectantly, but he shakes his head again.

"If neither Sirius, nor Regulus, nor probably your mother haven't told you about it, it is not my place." he tells her. She scowls at him.

"Fat chance they'll tell me now, don't you think?" she drawls.

"There's nothing to it which is really important that you don't already know." he dismisses it. "But I can tell you that if they arrive to the point their fighting usually does... this is not going to be hell."

"Then," comments Bill, eyeing a particularly raw piece of his steak. "Let's hope it doesn't."

With a bit of time, things seem to calm down, but they still refused to talk much, and much less to each other. Sirius starts coming down to dinner when the Order stays, and slowly returns to his usual routine. Even Regulus starts to come down from time to time. And still nothing _is_ normal.

* * *

1 In the Black Family when speaking of one of the Heads of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black formally they numerate them not unlike Kings or Dukes. It is not only a symbol of rank but obviously helps clear out which one are you speaking of because it can get quite confusing. Because of this, Sirius himself should be Sirius VII, even if he hasn't been formally sworn in yet, while his father was Orion IV and his grandfather Arcturus the XIII. Sirius V lived around 1712-1790 A.D.. In the same note, the use of the style "Most Noble and Ancient House of" is not only a show of old-fashioned ideals; it is also a show of legal rank. Only old enough families can legally use it (although nowadays no-one would be punished for it) unless they were part of the important families ratified in the Council of York (1000 A.D., yes at Doomsday). The contracts which bound the upper cast of wizards to their privileges were strong blood magic. As such the Blacks cannot legally be brought down to the ground with the rest of common mortals, because as long as a descendant of that Black who bled at York over a magical contract rests alive, the contract is still valid in the eyes of the law. It simply can't be changed, and trying wouldn't be pretty. Those privileges are nowadays mostly financial though.

2 In this case this style _is_ symbolic by this time in history, as is used for short instead of "Head of the House of Black", which is very long. Instead it derives from the use of the title they used to have before the Statute od Secrecy was inforced in 1692 A.D. Before that muggle and magic culture co-existed and as such some wizards had titles of nobility. As a family of power and so old that could be tracked to the Dark Ages, the Blacks had some. Nonetheless, as they hadn't had any Norman origin (purely Celtic instead, not even Saxon) they weren't part of the high nobility circles after 1066 A.D. In spite of that, they had the title of Baron and Viscount because the possession of extensive lands, which they sold after 1692 A.D. The Reason was that the new Statute terminated all peerages under the now purely magical order, and the government of the community _de facto_ dissociated itself from the King's authority. Noblemen were forced to either sell or cede their land back to the crown (then it was established that the King as the ruler of the country would be advised to magical situations, like the prime Minister today). Thus Wizarding England today has no peerage system, but the more old-fashioned still use the titles sometimes.


	16. Chapter 15: In Essence Divided

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – In Essence Divided**

It is two days before Christmas. As it's close to midnight, Grimmauld Place is in complete and utter silence, and nothing moves besides the heavy curtains being gently swept by the gusts of cold air. An imposing middle-aged-looking wizard walks from one portrait to another, robes billowing behind him in a flutter of black and dark green; crossing halls and rooms in all floors, from every corner.

Phineas Nigellus curses under his breath as he turns into the old study, inconveniencing a few more portraits, only to find it empty. He climbs, only figuratively speaking, not so quietly anymore to the topmost landing whilst still muttering profanities. Finally he comes into another frame, and stops muttering. He absently pats his little older brother in the head, and the painting child furrows his brow and looks at him curiously, and silently.

He looks into the room, the figure of his great-great-grandson is outlined against the meagre light coming through the drawn curtains by the window. He's lying on the bed and perfectly still.

"Time to wake up!" calls out Phineas. "Boy!" Sirius opens his eyes, and sits bolt upright, right hand holding firmly onto a wand Phineas is certain wasn't there a few seconds before, and not completely sure he knows how it got there.

He looks startled, his breathing is irregular; but his hand is perfectly steady, Phineas notes absently. A good thing is that he looks wide awake now. He doesn't comment, and neither does he speak until the wild look goes away from Sirius' eyes, just in case that half-asleep reflexive hexing hexes them out of the wall.

Sirius lowers his wand annoyed that what few hours of sleep he manages to conjure have to be interrupted like this. He stands and stands up, and approaches the portrait. "What do you want, Headmaster?" he asks soberly. "This is an ungodly hour for a social call."

"Save your sarcasm, boy. I've got a message from Dumbledore: Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at here shortly."

"Ok, got it." he nods, looking suddenly a bit preoccupied.

"I'll tell that to Dumbledore." says Phineas Nigellus before leaving in a flutter. Sirius turns around and grabs a dressing gown and leaves the room, rushing downstairs. When passing by his brother's room, he doesn't bother waking him up, he has a really deep slumber, and it won't do any good.

He goes down to the kitchen and lights up a fire in the fireplace: he paces as he watches carefully the dancing flames. He feels the tension in his brow menacing to become a full-fledged migraine, he definitely is sleeping too little these days. He goes up to the counter and pours a glass of Odgen's firewhiskey, to calm down and numb his head into submission. He has to ask someone to bring something strong for headaches. This is too familiar. And on top, from all, it had to be Arthur.

He keeps staring at the flames, waiting for them to turn green at any moment, but then he berates himself for his own stupidity. They probably will be arriving by Port-key. They monitor the Floo Network, portkeys are usually Ministry-issued and scrupulously watched upon, but nonetheless, not likely to be intercepted.

A few minutes later the air makes a sort of awkward vibration, and the five children appear near the fireplace, making a truly awkward landing. He approaches them. The bunch of red-head boys (and girl) almost completely hide Harry from view. They are still in pyjamas, and look scared, confused and out of place.

"What's going on?" he asks as he helps Ginny up from the cold floor of the kitchen. "Phineas Nigellus said that Arthur's been badly injured…"

"Ask Harry." says Fred.

"Yeah, I want to hear this for myself." says George. All the eyes turn to Harry, who by now, has lost his colour completely and is white as a sheet.

"It is…" Harry begins. Sirius places a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he looks down on him worriedly. "I had a, a kind of…vision…I saw…" he says after a short pause. "Mr. Weasley being attacked by a snake… I saw the snake strike three times… then woke up." the others keep on looking at Harry for a few seconds.

"Is Mum here?" says Fred, turning to Sirius.

"She probably doesn't even know what's happened yet," says Sirius. "The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore's letting Molly know now."

"We've got to go to St. Mungo's," says Ginny urgently. She looks around at her brothers. "Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything?"

"Hang on, you can't go tearing off to St. Mungo's!" says Sirius exasperated, as he sits on a chair.

"Course we can go to St. Mungo's if we want!" says Fred, with a mulish expression. "He's our dad!"

"And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?" he counters trying to sound reasonable.

"What does that matter?" says George hotly.

"It matters because we don't want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!" says Sirius angrily. "Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?" the Weasleys look at him like he is talking rubbish.

"Somebody else could have told us... we could have heard it somewhere other than Harry." says Ginny.

"Like who?" says Sirius impatiently. "Listen, your dad's been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order's…"

"We don't care about the dumb Order!" shouts Fred.

"It's our dad dying we're talking about!" yells George.

"Your father knew what he was getting into and he won't thank you for messing things up for the Order!" says Sirius, equally angry. "This is how it is... this is why you're not in the Order, you don't understand, there are things worth dying for!"

"Easy for you to say, stuck here!" bellows Fred. "I don't see you risking your neck!"

The little colour remaining in Sirius's face drains from it. His fingers crisp and his eyes flash dangerously. To the children it looks as if he grew taller suddenly, an imposing aura around him. He looks for a moment as though he would quite like to hit Fred, but when he speaks, it is in a voice of determined calm.

"I know it's hard, but we've all got to act as though we don't know anything yet. We've got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?" he says as the flickering lights in the old kitchen slowly go back to normal.

Fred and George still look mutinous. Ginny, a bit sacred, however, takes a few steps over to the nearest chair and sinks into it. Harry looks at Ron sit down too, and the twins only glare at Sirius for another minute, then take seats either side of Ginny.

"That's right," he says Sirius encouragingly, "come on, let's all... let's all have a drink while we're waiting. Accio Butterbeer!"

He raises his wand as he speaks, and half a dozen bottles fly towards them out of the pantry, they skid along the table, scattering the debris of Sirius's earlier meal, and stop neatly in front of them. They all drink, and for a while the only sounds were those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of their bottles on the table.

Then the kitchen door opens softly to reveal Regulus Black, who is wearing a dressing gown too, a clear sign that he has been dragged out of bed, along with a voice still raspy from sleep and yelling unceremoniously to the late Headmaster Black to go to Hell.

"What's this ruckus now?" says as he glares at his brother. Sirius points at the children and a disconcerted look comes upon Regulus. "Have I been sleeping for two days or something? Weren't they supposed to arrive on the 23rd?" Sirius rolls his eyes.

"You've only slept five hours, they arrived earlier. Arthur's been injured while on duty." he says. Realisation strikes, and Regulus and nods slowly. He leans on the counter next to Sirius, who has just stood up and is leaning against the countertop whilst keeping an eye on the children.

Regulus squirms as he feels five pairs of eyes on him. He fiddles with a butterbeer and crosses his arms defensively over his chest. As the children keep on staring, he glares right back. Sirius only nudges him and gives him a warning glance in passing.

Both brothers are wearing dressing gowns, but while Sirius' is dark hue of blue, with black décor... severe an ugly but passable, the one Regulus' sports a very Slytherin silver and green pattern. One he must've found amongst his old possessions surely. Sirius rolls his eyes when he realises it.

"You ought to get rid of that one." he comments pointing at him. "It hurts the eyes looking at it."

The comment seems to loosen a bit the tension in the room. Regulus rolls his eyes "I don't have another one." He waits with the rest of them. Not much later, a burst of fire in midair illuminates the dirty plates on the table. As the children give cries of shock, a scroll of parchment falls with a thud on to the table, accompanied by a single golden phoenix tail feather.

"Fawkes!" says Sirius at once, snatching up the parchment promptly, before no-one else has got the chance of getting at it first. "That's not Dumbledore's writing; it must be a message from your mother. Here…" He thrusts the letter into George's hand, who rips it open and reads aloud:

"Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St. Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum." George looks around the table. "Still alive..." he says slowly. "But that makes it sound..."

He does not need to finish the sentence. It sounds to everyone, as though Arthur is hovering somewhere between life and death. Sirius shakes his head and pats George on the shoulder; only to sit down again in front of Harry, whose hands are shaking and is clenching his butterbeer hard enough to break it.

A few minutes later Regulus joins them at the table, taking a place next to his brother. It seems the longest night. They sit around the table in silence, drinking. It is obvious that Sirius is distressed in his own way; because he doesn't say anything when Regulus pulls out a cigarette and starts smocking. Or maybe he is just being respectful towards the Weasleys' grief.

He suggests once, that they all go to bed, but the Weasleys' looks of disgust are answer enough. They mostly sit in silence around the table, watching the candle wick sinking lower and lower into liquid wax, speaking only to check the time, to wonder aloud what is happening, and to reassure each other that if there was bad news, they would know straightaway, for Mrs. Weasley must long since have arrived at St. Mungo's. Fred falls into a doze, his head lolling sideways on to his shoulder. Ginny is curled like a cat on her chair, but her eyes are open; they reflecting the firelight as they gleam with unshed tears. Ron is sitting with his head in his hands, whether awake or asleep it is impossible to tell. Harry and the Blacks look at each other every so often, intruders upon the family grief, waiting... waiting...

At ten past five in the morning, the kitchen door swings open and Mrs. Weasley enters. She is extremely pale, but when they all turn to look at her, Fred, Ron and Harry half rising from their chairs, she gives a warm smile.

"He's going to be all right," she says, her voice weak and tired. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill's sitting with him now; he's going to take the morning off work."

The relief is palpable. Like bursting a big balloon. Suddenly, Sirius can't handle the inactivity any longer.

"Breakfast!" he says loudly, jumping to his feet. "Where's that accursed house-elf? Oh, I forgot you killed him." he says turning to his brother, apparently the unspoken truce already over. Regulus ignores him and starts picking up the empty bottles of butterbeer.

"So, it's breakfast for…let's see. Eight... bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast…" mutters Sirius, counting the people in front of him. Both Regulus and Harry hurry over to the stove to help. At least Regulus does not want to intrude anymore in a family matter. When Molly releases Harry from one of her smothering hugs, she turns to Sirius, thanking him for looking after her children through the night.

"It wasn't a problem Molly." he says putting up a mild tone and a pleasant attitude." I'm happy to have been able to help, and I really hope that you'll stay with us as long as Arthur's in the hospital."

"Oh, Sirius, I'm so grateful... they think he'll be there a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer... of course, that might mean we're here for Christmas."

"The more the merrier!" says Sirius with such obvious sincerity that Mrs. Weasley beams at him, throws on an apron and begins to help with breakfast.

Sirius find himself separated from the group as Harry drags him into the dark pantry for a quick word, and Sirius, of course, just because it is Harry, follows him. Without preamble, Harry hurriedly explains him the true version of the dream, and he sees how his worry shows on his face.

"Did you tell Dumbledore this?" asks Sirius cautiously when Harry pauses for breath.

"Yes," he says impatiently, "but he didn't tell me what it meant. Well, he doesn't tell me anything anymore."

"I'm sure he would have told you if it was anything to worry about." says Sirius steadily.

"But that's not all" says Harry, Sirius almost can't hear him. "Sirius, I... I think I'm going mad. Back in Dumbledore's office, just before we took the Portkey... for a couple of seconds there I thought I was a snake, I felt like one, my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore…Sirius, I wanted to attack him!" Sirius is glad Harry most likely won't be able to see his face in the darkness, as he can't hold a grimace.

"It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that's all," he says. "You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and…"

"It wasn't that," says Harry stubbornly, shaking his head, "it was like something rose up inside me, like there's a snake inside me."

"You need to sleep," says Sirius firmly. "You're going to have breakfast, then go upstairs to bed, and after lunch you can go and see Arthur with the others. You're in shock, Harry; you're blaming yourself for something you only witnessed, and it's lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying."

He claps Harry on the shoulder and leaves the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark, while his mind goes a thousand miles per hour trying to process the new information in a manner that makes some sense, and trying, in vain, to look for an explanation that isn't cause for worry.

::::::::::::::

Around midday everyone is being awakened by the Blacks, mostly Sirius, who goes room by room telling them to get up. Regulus puts in less of an effort, but in the circumstances with which he can somewhat relate, he finds it in himself to be understanding and helpful.

The mood seems to have changed, and the mood is lively and happy, as everyone gets ready to leave to St Mungo. Molly spends a great deal of time during lunch thanking Sirius over and over again.

When Tonks and Mad-Eye turn up to escort them across London, they are greeted gleefully, laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye is wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair is short and bright pink again, would attract far less attention on the Underground. Soon after, they leave the house.

And yet again the brothers Black are left alone. Each one is standing at one end of the kitchen, looking at anything else but at each other. Silence fills the room, a very uncomfortable silence, like a heavy tombstone oppressing their hearts.

"I'm sorry…" whispers Regulus, looking at his feet, at last. Sirius looks directly at him. "I talked too much… the things I said… I shouldn't…" Sirius motions him to stop with his hand, suddenly irritated again.

"There's no need for this." he cuts him, and he leaves the room.

And he walks away as every time a confrontation of the emotional kind is coming up, because he truly hates feeling this confused and helpless. He tries to tell himself that he isn't angry because Regulus has just shoved the problem into his court yet again; and that it doesn't irritate him that it's him who's had the courage to formulate an apology first.

No, instead he tells himself that it is that inability to stand up for his already voiced opinions that he can't stand. It is that way he has of showing his belly in submission which he finds absolutely revolting.

He walks up and down the house putting up Christmas décor all over, trying to make it look a little bit more festive. He even decides to place Santa's hats on the elf's heads on the walls. He places mistletoe on every corner, hoping that against all odds he can trap a very stubborn werewolf and a distracted auror under it. He even places a red nose in an old stuffed stag head.

Sirius mood improves considerably after knowing that the children will stay for Christmas, he goes up and down singing and old Christmas carol, always the same. He doesn't really care if he is in tune, which he isn't on purpose.

Later that afternoon the children return from St. Mungo, looking relieved, even happy. But not all, Harry looks depressed and sad. He barely looks at Sirius when they cross paths, and he knows that something isn't quite right.

Tonks and Remus stay for dinner, saying they haven't got anything better to do. They talk and they laugh. Tonks entertains the crowd by changing faces, and Remus and Sirius tell bad jokes to Fred and George. When dinner is ready Mrs. Weasley calls out for Harry to come down, but he doesn't, so she sends Ron to tell Harry that if he doesn't want to come down she'll save him some food for tomorrow. Who does come down is Regulus, even though Sirius thought, hoped, he wouldn't.

"So you decided to show up after all?" says Sirius sarcastically as Regulus takes a chair and sits down.

"It's good to see you again." says Tonks as she claps his shoulder, after all she hadn't seen him since October. Remus simply looks him over, after all he hasn't been extremely nice, has he?

"You too Dora." with a terrible effort turns to his brother. "Arthur's well?" Sirius nods.

"He'll be fine."

Regulus doesn't speak again in the whole dinner. The rest of the group talks and laughs; enjoying Christmas. Truth be told, he has never seen his brother that happy, which makes his heart give a sad twinge. After dinner he is the first to leave the room. Harry doesn't show at breakfast, either, and Sirius worry grows anew. They spend the morning decorating the house, they all lend a hand. Mundungus even lends them an enormous Christmas tree that is placed in front of the tapestry, and ends up being decorated by Regulus and Tonks.

"Young Weasley!" says Regulus, calling out for Ron. Ron looks wildly around and points his thumb at himself. "Pass over that Christmas Ball." he says motioning for a red ball that's big enough to be confused with a watermelon. Sirius chuckles and snorts, causing Regulus to turn his head towards him annoyed. "What now?"

"Nothing, just that Great-Great-Grandaunt Elladora and Ursula having a cup of tea take too much space up there." he says tapping on his own temple. "That's the only reasonable explanation to why you can't learn which Weasley is which." Tonks laughs, and the sound of her merry laughter fills the room.

"Fine, laugh at me as much as you want. But I was never very good at names." Regulus shrugs off.

"Yes, that's why you can't tell us the entire family genealogy by heart." sarcasm stains Sirius' voice, but his tone isn't quite as malicious as it has been as of late. The santa's hat Tonks has placed on his head, helping to make him look even merry.

"No, that's because mother hammered them into my head." he answers as he goes on with the task at hand.

"Then, shall I hammer their names into your head?" Sirius says as he looks at him and waves his wand with sadistic glee.

"Really, there's no need. I assure you that I manage well enough." Tonks giggles. "But what would be a great help would be that tattooed their names on their brow."

"Then you'll just have to wait until the Christmas presents" says Ron, who is struggling with a great garland, and he points to a few oddly-shaped packages on one corner. "But I think it'll have to be on the chest."

"But it won't have the full name just the initial" points out Ginny. "But that will do, won't it?"

"No, dear sis, he may get confused and call them Gred and Feorge." answers Sirius. Regulus glares at him and the twins start to complain loudly that only they are allowed to bastardize their names. "I do vote for hammering them into your head..."

"Well, I assure you that even hammering them into my head would've made me learn by heart all those names" comments Tonks as she points at the family tree standing proud on the wall above their heads, presiding grimly over the scene. Regulus allows a quiet laugh to escape his lips.

By dinner time they've decorated the entire house, which looks brighter than it has ever been. And the entire house sings along with Sirius' _'Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs'_. In the afternoon the doorbell rings, waking Mrs. Black again. But not even that seems to darken Sirius' mood. It is Hermione, just arrived. She is greeted with one of Molly's bone-breaker hugs, one of those that both brothers shudder at mere witnessing. Then she goes up to leave her things. Molly sends the children to eat upstairs with Harry, who hasn't appeared near the kitchen since they returned from St Mungo's.

Sirius never knows what they talk about during that evening, but next morning Harry comes down to the kitchen looking happier than in the entire holydays, he even joins Sirius once when singing '_God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs'_.

Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, is infectious. He seems determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he works tirelessly in the run up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by Christmas Eve the house is barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers are no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; the great Christmas tree has been decorated with live fairies, and all the elf heads on the hall wall wear Father Christmas hats and beards.


	17. Chapter 16: A Merry Little Christmas

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Sixteen – Have a Merry Little Christmas**

It is Christmas Eve and the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place is distended. Around seven, Molly starts cooking and the children are joined in the kitchen by Bill, Tonks, Remus and the Blacks. The general mood couldn't possibly be better. Molly goes on with the supper preparations while the others attend to the rest. It is supposed to be Christmas Eve, and Molly even allows Sirius to open a bottle of wine, some very expensive wine (at Remus' request).

It is a cold evening, so they sit near the fireplace, in order to keep warm. Sirius sits across Regulus, next to Remus, and Nymphadora sits next to the younger of the Blacks. Bill sits between Tonks and his mother, who sits next to Remus. And the children sit as far as they can from their mother, between Sirius and Regulus.

Once they've finish supper, Molly turns towards the children. "You know what?" she says. "It's Christmas Eve, you really don't need to stay put tonight." hers is a broad smile; and the twins faces seem to light up. "All of you can go upstairs and stay there for a while." she doesn't need to tell them twice, Ron marches up his room followed by Fred, George, Ginny, Harry and Hermione." If you want to join them Bill… - she says turning to her oldest son.

"Mum!" says indignantly. "Me? Go with them? And give the twins a chance to hex my socks so that my toes turn purple?"

"Sorry, Bill, didn't realise." says Molly as laughter rings amongst the concurrence. Joking and drinking follow Molly's embarrassment, of course, in which even she finds it in her to indulge a bit with a couple of glasses of wine.

"You know? The only thing I really don't care much for about Christmas are the family gatherings." says Tonks. Remus chokes on his drink as he bursts up in a fit of very unbefitting giggles.

"Well, they are boring and obnoxious." adds Bill, earning himself a smack in his arm from his mother.

"If you want to say I'm boring then wait until I cannot hear you." she chides him with a smile.

"No, I mean those family dinners where are all the relatives we have alive turn up." explains Bill. "Every time that uncle Bilius showed up, dinner turned into a circus, fought over everything, ended up making dad mad… and better not start with aunt Muriel…"

"Oh, those… well."

"Well, you two," says Sirius pointing at Bill and Tonks. "at least have halfway decent families." Remus sniggers, happy that the atmosphere is relaxed enough for Sirius to say something like this with no bitterness in his voice.

"It couldn't be that bad could it?" asks Bill, and this time is Regulus turn to choke. "They're much the same everywhere."

"My, my...!" exclaims Sirius turning to his brother. "...and I always thought you enjoyed them."

"No, I didn't. But I became a pretty good actor. No-one does enjoy them. At least no-one in his right mind."

"Well, as the drunken pillock here has pointed out by rather stupidly chocking on that piece of bread, it was bread wasn't it?" starts Sirius. "It could be... peculiar. Imagine…" he says to Nymphadora, who is sniggering already just by the tone of wild storytelling he has taken on. "...imagine having in the same room Bellatrix" Tonks' face is unreadable. "Yes, that Bellatrix…" tells them "plus her husband, that arsehole of her brother-in-law, Narcissa, Malfoy, my _dear _parents, occasionally grandmother, Uncle Alphard…"

"He always sneaked out." grouses Regulus.

"Yes, of course... and obviously... you." Regulus makes a disgruntled sound, but otherwise ignores Sirius, in too good a mood to bother taking offense. "...so... charming."

"You can't deny those parties on New Year's Eve were far worse..." Regulus comments instead.

"Yes... and no. It was worst because there were far too many people there. But it was better because if you really didn't feel like it you could always drown yourself in the eggnog and ignore everyone playing drunk." Remus snorts and firewhisky goes up his nose, leaving behind an unpleasant burn. Tonks is laughing as well.

"Yes, but the point is, you weren't supposed to stand all night next to the eggnog." says Regulus, Sirius shrugs.

"Well, a bad thing of Christmas parties of my family, on my father's side... is that they always ended up in grief and someone getting mad." says Tonks, and somehow makes it obvious that she has nothing to comment on her mother's side of the family. "Someone always broke something, another one got drunk, a third party insulted the first one moving… you catch my drift."

She waves her hand around for greater effect, and unwittingly manages to bump her elbow into a heavy yellow mushroom-shaped lamp that was recently moved from upstairs to the kitchen to light up the vast table.

"Bimley, I'm sorry..." she wheezes as she bents up to straighten it up, but no-one pays it any mind, not even Molly; instead the conversation goes on as if her bout of clumsiness had never occurred.

"Don't worry..." Sirius mutters. "It was hideous either way."

"I understand it is rather normal, it happens in all families." says Remus.

"He understands, because as it happens it must be all families except his." Sirius says as he throws him an amused glance over the brim of the cup he's holding in front of him.

"But in mine, because there was no extended family to speak of." Remus concedes the point.

"Yeah, but I'm sure that in yours, Bill it doesn't happen..."

"Weren't you listening? Well, in fact..." says him, "it depends. If there are only us; mum, dad, and my siblings, no. but if there's the whole family... well, yes."

"I would bet my hand that in yours this didn't happen, all that pish-posh and good manners..." she says turning to Regulus, and ignoring Sirius' look of incredulity.

"There you are right, Pinky." Tonks frowns. "The gist is when someone got pissed with you they just waited the moment when you left the party to hex you into oblivion." he said as he contemplating the swirling amber depths of his glass of firewhisky. When quiet laughter goes around, he has the impression they actually think he is exaggerating with humoristic purposes.

"Or in Bella's case, she asphyxiated you with the pillow when no-one was looking." says Sirius talking about the incident as if it truly was a far-fetched invention of his.

"I'll break a rib if I keep laughing. Ha ha." Regulus says. "Has no-one told you crazed relatives are a terrible subject to bring up after a meal? You'll give me indigestion." he grimaces as if it was already happening. "The incident is no-where near amusing. I was coughing green feathers for a month!"

Sirius only lets out a bark-like laugh and throws a plush wine velvet cushion flying his way which he manages to divert with a mid-air punch, which effectively sends it on the way of the other yellow mushroom-shaped monstrosity standing nearby, making it collapse to the floor with a satisfying _twack!_.

"That's no news, Reg." says Sirius. "And that is, unfortunately, no good news."

"Don't call me …" he hisses. But by now, his as Nymphadora's demands in that regard, are completely ignored.

"What's this thing about pillows about?" asks Bill looking amusedly inside his glass of firewhisky, as if it might provide answers. "Because if no-one mentioned pillows in a conversation about get-togethers, I've had one too many..."

Unsurprisingly, it is Regulus the one to answer. "When I was around seven we had to stay at Aunt's Druella with our cousins for a month." he starts explaining, probably he wouldn't were not for the fact that he has already had a bit too much to drink and is feeling liberal. "One day I was peacefully sleeping only to wake to the uncomfortable feeling of not being able to breath, courtesy of Bella and a feathery green pillow on my face." Tonks looks at him with her eyes the size of saucers, her mouth hanging slightly open. "Today I still don't know the exact reason of her fit. The only reason the incident summed up to nothing was because I kicked her on the ribs."

"Gives you a measure of the sanity level around here." grouses Sirius. "Talking about Christmas parties... I much preferred the homey kind... even when the pudding menaces to kill you due to indigestion."

"If you are talking about Mrs Potter you've just picked up the another bad habit James." Remus catches on that Sirius is steering the conversation in another direction. "I'm sure that in actuality..."

"It was all very nice..." Sirius cuts in looking mischievously at Molly. "But rather... you know she was the motherly type. She tended to cook inordinately large amounts of food..." Molly, for once doesn't look annoyed, but inordinately proud of being compared to whom would've been Harry's grandmother.

Stories are shared and exchanged back and forth for a while, as the level of liquor in the bottles diminishes steadily, and the fire by the fireplace dims until it is reduced to only smouldering embers. Well before that, Molly just told them that although she was having a really good time, but she should go to bed and make sure the children did as well, and left them to their own devices.

"I still remember the face my grandmother made when I appeared the Christmas where I must've turned fifteen with my hair purple." says Tonks in between chuckles. "I thought she was going to have a stroke."

"So you haven't had that hair colour all your life! Thank Merlin!" says Bill, earning himself a badly-aimed smack that instead of landing on his arm almost manages to topple over his glass.

"Well, I think it's really nice." comments Remus, causing Tonks to rather obviously flush. Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Well, I don't know if it's nice, but it's certainly a good way of being identified" comments Sirius. "Makes you stand out in a crowd and all that... and with you probably not being able to tell which is your true face is after changing it around too much; I guess it is a good solution. That way people don't have to know how you look either, they just got to locate the most obnoxious hairdo around."

Tonks frowns and sniffs. "Well, I really like it." says Tonks, pretending to be hurt, but hiding a smirk.

"Thank Merlin!" counters Regulus. "I pity the person who has to wear such hair colour and doesn't like it."

"You are cruel!" cries Tonks as she smacked him playfully. "But one might as well be hung for a dragon as well as an egg. People already make snide comments because I'm a metamorphomagus, might as well have fun with it."

"Oh, come on Tonks, he's right." says Bill.

"This is a plot against me, a governmental conspiracy!" she wails, making a good imitation of a banshee.

"A conspiracy against what exactly?" asks Sirius amused.

"Against women with pink hair."

"As there are so many…" he says sarcastically.

"Sirius!" says Tonks. "Remus, help me here!"

"What am I supposed to do?" Remus helplessly amused. "He _is_ Sirius Black after all. Which in so many words means he's unique and irreplaceable…"

"… and thank Merlin for that." finishes Regulus in his stead, causing a few sparse chuckling sounds.

"Now that's some kind of plot against _me_." Then he raises his eyes from his drink to look at his brother and his friend, only to swirl the contents of his glass once more, letting the dramatic silence continue. "You two have allied against me. And you don't even like each other!" he accuses, and after a pause he adds, as if struck by sudden illumination. "Wait… right now, I don't like any of you either."

Remus looks at him rather unfazed an instead only reaches over him to grab at the bottle of Ogden's finest. Regulus doesn't even move from his indolent sprawl on the kitchen chair.

"Bunch of traitors!" he says jokingly, unleashing his dramatic side.

"You would have been a great actor." comments Bill off-handedly.

"You just took the words out of my mouth." adds Remus. Sirius just smiles that crooked smile of his that renders him a mysterious far-away look.

"This is horrible." comments Tonks. "I'm stuck in a room with the three only men who refuse to call me Tonks.

"I don't see what's wrong in calling you Nymphadora." says Remus, whom the firewhisky has made more daring than normal.

"What's wrong? That it's hideous!" cries Dora. "And you three seem in love with the name. Sirius that insists in calling me Dora; and doesn't want to register I'm not five anymore. You," he points accusingly at Remus. "do insist in calling me Nymphadora over and over again, with all of its ten wicked letters; I've counted them. And Regulus just goes all copy-cat and dares call me Dora too, and adds Pinky in for good measure." she turns too Bill, who is straining not to laugh. "Can you believe it... the nerve!"

"I've called you Dora since you were out of diappers," says Sirius. "and have no intentions of calling you anything else."

"Ugh, you three can be exasperating." mutters Tonks. Silence falls for a moment and she yawns widely, she tries unsuccessfully to block it with her hand, and rises from her chair.

"Well, see'ya guys." says Tonks. "I'm tired and if I don't stop drinking I'm going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow… and as I'm the looser that has been stuck with tomorrow's shift back in the Auror Office... I'll just go to sleep." she slapps Sirius on the back. "G'night, till tomorrow."

"Goodnight." is the answering mutter.

"I think I'll go too. Won't like to know what mother will have to say on the matter if I don't." says Bill, and he too disappears upstairs.

The three of them remain in the kitchen, the spirits momentarily dampened. Soon enough the silence is broken as Sirius starts singing his favourite Christmas Carol mournfully, only to be joined by Regulus.

"God rest ye merry hippogriffs! Let nothing you dismay..." they sing gravelly. "Remember him our savior, was born on Christmas day; to save us from Morgan Le Faye... when she had gone astray. O Tidings of comfort and joy! Comfort and joy! O Tidings of comfort and joy!" Remus places his hands over his ears, and eyes them with one eye open, the other tightly closed. "God rest Ye, Merry hippogriffs! Go rest high up in the sky…!" they reach an almost perfectly out of tune unison, as they let the last note drag out mournfully, as the song dies out.

"In the name of Merlin! Are you pathologically incapable of singing anything else?" asks the man laughing, and still using the patented exasperated look for which he has so many variants that he reserves exclusively for Sirius. "Never even considered singing _'Granma Got Run Over By A Reindeer'_?"

"Don't know any other." answers Sirius. "And it is a werewolf, _'Granma Got Run Over By A Werewolf'_, I think; though considering I don't know any other I'll accept your Reindeer as a valid title. Do you know any other?" he suddenly asks Regulus.

"Nope... that's the only one I can recall." says the younger Black. "Who used to sing that one?" asks Regulus, more to himself than anyone else, lost in the hazy memories of alcohol. "Grandmother Irma?" he muses tilting his head sideways.

"No," answers Sirius. "she sang that one about a boggart and a willow, or something like that. And it wasn't even a Christmas Carol."

"Yeah..." then he quickly adds. "Uncle Alphard?"

"Who else?" asks Sirius with a smirk. "I, personally, can't picture mother singing."

"He seems quite a character." comments Remus as he leans back into his hard uncomfortable chair.

"He was," proclaims Regulus solemnly "the only man on earth brave enough to call mother Wally." drinking loosens up his tongue, and by now he is talking far more than he would feel comfortable with in sober conditions.

"She allowed him to do a lot of things anyone else couldn't even dream of doing." says Sirius shaking his head. Remus laughed.

"Like McGonagall" says the werewolf, who by now also seems seemed extremely happy and Sirius could tell that he can't humanly resist much more.

"And what has McGonagall to do with my mother?" asks Sirius, who in the other hand is very calm and too collected still not to feel bothered by incoherent sentences.

"Two years ago… while teaching at Hogwarts… I accidentally called her Minnie, it was a slip of the tongue..." his tale is met by the incredulous stare of the other two, Sirius looks clearly saying _liar_.

"You wouldn't!" exclaims Regulus shuddering. Remus nods.

"She looked like a Hungarian Horntail with a stolen egg…" he could hear Sirius dry scratchy chuckling. "She didn't takl, tlak… I can't get the bloody word straight." Sirius chuckled.

"That's because you are absolutely drunk." says Sirius, Remus shakes his head in drunken denial.

"No, I'm not." Regulus sniggers and buries his own nose in his own glass of firewhisky.

"Yes, you are." Sirius answers. "Regulus, don't you dare laugh because you are just as drunk as he is."

Regulus instead pretends to be surprised and opens his grey eyes in a comical fashion, making a good imitation of a deer caught in the headlights.

"Me?" asks, hi voice suspiciously cheery.

"Yes." Sirius announces gravely, and at the same time infinitely amused.

"What gave me away?"

"The cheerfulness, and maybe the fact that you are talking like an old chatterbox… You are such a talkative and sentimental drunk. Isn't it Remus?" he asks his childhood friend; but there was no answer. "Remus?"

Sirius pokes his leg with his toes and Remus doesn't stir. Then, Sirius kicks him harder, only to have Remus' head loll sideways. "He wasn't drunk." he says, amused.

"Is he OK?" asks Regulus.

"Yes, he's just asleep." states Sirius after pocking him in the ribs, checking again, and only managing to extract a soft snore out of him. "And here you are, you are a sentimental drunk, and he's a funny-sleepy kind of drunk."

Sirius spends the following half an hour bothering Remus with a conjured emerald green feather, infinitely amused by the way he stirs in his sleep when he tickles him, and tries to get rid of the nuisance. At the same time he has one eye on his brother, who is pretty much awake, unlike Remus. On the other hand, he is extremely talkative, which is just so unlike him.

"You know?" says the younger brother. "This is the best Christmas I've had in a long time."

"Really?" asks Sirius, more focused on tickling Remus' nose and ears with his feather, than on offering a decent conversation; although Regulus doesn't seem to mind much.

"I mean, getting drunk alone is not even fun. I mean, yes, it is better than not drinking at all, but it's still... not the same." he takes one last swing at the firewhisky bottle only to shake it latter in disappointment when not a drop comes out of it. "Besides, to end up sleeping it out in the police station on Christmas Eve is just... not."

"At the Police Station?" Sirius' eyes shine mischievously and Regulus nods solemnly.

"Yes. The first time I went to the pub to drink, ended up stumbling in circles down the street so drunk the patrol officer though walking back the two kilometres to my house was too much, so he preventively locked me away in a cell for irresponsible behaviour."

"Will wonders never cease?" comments Sirius with a smile in his eyes.

"They even had a cell with a sign that said 'me'." Regulus confesses.

"Wouldn't it rather be a sign with your name?" Sirius asks with a condescending tone.

"Don't be silly, of course there wasn't any sign…"

"Really, I hadn't noticed you didn't mean it literally." is the reply.

"You were always a bit thick." Regulus announces with all the dignity he can muster. "Have I already thanked you for saving my life?"

Regulus sudden non-sequitur finally manages to startle Sirius; who prides himself of not being startled ever, not even when Mad-Eye paranoidly shouts without no reason at all. He sighs and turns his face away from the suddenly expectant face that looks intently at him.

"You almost mentioned it once, yes." he answers after clearing his voice.

"I thought so." is the only answer. "Well... there, I've already told you."

Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Do you realize that I've been avoiding this conversation for what it seems like forever." he says, and in his voice there is the edge of a warning.

"Well… thank you… for everything…" his slurred words, still come out anyways. "But I need t'say it... and you need t'hear it."

Sirius wonders when did Regulus become so Dumbledorish. And he knows he'll make to ignore this whole exchange, being infinitely grateful that Regulus will most likely remember nothing come morning. He doesn't want to talk about this because he might've to change his mind. Maybe he does need hearing it, he can't be sure anymore; and he rationally knows that he can't put it off forever. But the trouble is, he has lived so long with this feud fuelling his actions... he might become lost without it; and without neither guide nor purpose. What would he do?

"Yes, sure… you are welcome…" he grouses, only to affix Regulus with a critical stare. "You need to sleep it off." he sentences. Then he stands up and orders: "Now, up with you."

Regulus, of course, does try, but his wobbly legs don't quite respond in an ideal manner. Sirius would be amused if the sight wasn't so pitiful. And, why in the name of Merlin why this kind of thing only happens to him? He places a steadying arm under Regulus' arms, and carefully manoeuvres him out of the kitchen, up the stairs and across the hall from their mother's portrait.

"I'm not invalid Sirius." Regulus' wheezy voice complains in his ear, despite the fact that his head is currently on his shoulder, when they're on the stairs up to the second floor. "I can walk you know?"

Sirius merely lets out a long-suffering sigh and nevertheless releases him completely, letting him fend for himself in the middle of the grand stairway. Despite the fact that he is used to very sparse light, the corridors are darker than the dimly-lit kitchen, and the only thing clearly visible are the misty eyes floating there, wide and surprised. Regulus remains in the same spot he's been left in, with precarious balance grasping the railing like a drowning man.

"OK" he croaks. "I do need help."

"I'll help you." says Sirius as he gets a hold of him again. "But let it be known that this is the last time." he says.

Sirius opens the room door kicks it aside as he carries his brother inside. With a last effort he places him on the bed, where he is still coordinated enough to sit down. Regulus' body doesn't quite react to almost anything right now, and every tiny movement requires an effort of epic proportions.

"Get out of those." commands Sirius as he tugs at the collar of his tunic. Regulus obeys and shrugs it off, starting to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers are unable to find their way around. "Come here." Sirius says, with a patience that surprises even himself. He starts to unbutton it for him, just like when they were kids and played in the snow, and Regulus couldn't unlatch the clasp of his cloak. "It seems you've regressed to ten years old."

"No," says Regulus shaking his head. "Back then it was the ties."

Sirius, under some other circumstance would have uttered a cutting comment, but facing a person so very close to drunken stupor, he doesn't find it in himself. Once he manages to remove the shirt he steps back and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Now, get out of your pants." Regulus' removes his shoes with a kick, and then proceeds to undo his belt, but again his fingers can't do it.

"My fingers are numb." says as he keeps on fighting with the belt.

"I'm not helping you with your trousers." warns Sirius as he leans on the grand cupboard, as he looks down at his brother. But somehow in the darkness of a lifeless room, and with the certainty that no-one is looking and judging, helps him anyway; wondering if maybe he should feel embarrassed on behalf of both. He can't remember the last time he saw Regulus with so little clothing on. He throws him the dressing gown, and watches him struggle to put it on.

"Why do I always get stuck with the drunks?" he muses under his breath.

He makes to go; he has another drunkard to retrieve after all. But Regulus must've been more aware than he gave him credit for. "Wait." he calls out. Sirius turns towards him with a questioning look.

"What now?" Regulus motions for Sirius' to sit on the bed. Sirius looks warily his way, but right now, be it for the tardiness of the hour, the liquor, or because it is Christmas; but only sees how much Regulus still looks like a lost child. He carefully sits beside him, and finds that little bit of irrational humanity that still is there somewhere. "Are you alright?

The bowed head nods, strands of black hair falling into his eyes. Then he turns towards him with a strange look in his eyes. Then Sirius finds that two thin arms sneak around his neck in a sort of awkward hug, which is even more awkward on his part. He stays very still, surprised by the out-of-character action, and finally awkwardly pats him on the back; which is a not so subtle way of telling him to let go.

"I've missed you Sirius." is the whispered and sleepy muttering. Sirius does not answer to this. He only pushes him backwards before he falls asleep on him, only to see his eyelids slid closed. He accommodates his head on the pillow and covers him with the blankets. He removes the hair from his face, tucking it behind his ears, because as he has decided to let it grow again, right now it is too long to be short and too short to be long. Asleep and seen by the soft moonlight of a crescent moon seeping into the panelled window, the harsher lines of Regulus' face are smoothed out, and he looks much younger than he is. As he watches his face softens too.

If there had been someone else to see it they would've seen how some of the characteristic Black haughtiness is smoothed away too, from Sirius' face. Only to be revealed that without the sneering faces and hardened looks, in both cases, much of that apparent hauteur is only an accident of aquiline bone structure and high contrast colouring. In that moment of weakness, Sirius looks a great deal less worn and a hundred times more approachable than he does when Regulus is awake. The expressive mouth looks softer, gentler, as the striking eyes watch intently the cause of half his current head-aches.

"I've missed you too, Reg; now and then." he breaths when he exits the room.

The fire in the kitchen has died out completely and the cold inside the house is starting to seep into his very bones. Back in the kitchen, Remus still snores away peacefully and completely unaware of his surroundings. He enters the old beaten-down room and strolls up to his sleeping friend. Then he tells the sleeping form:

"I'm not carrying you upstairs." he says, more talking to himself than to whom cannot, very obviously, hear him. "Do I levitate you all the way upstairs, or do I wake you up?" Remus seems to stir, but only snores ostentatiously and falls still again. Sirius gives him a disapproving little evil look. "I know for certain that if I levitate you, you are going to complain that I was made you sick, so there is only one option left…"

He leans forward over the sleeping form of Grimmauld Place's resident werewolf until his mouth is by his ear, and his breath rushes past it. "Waking you up!" he shouts into the sensitive ear. Lupin jumps three feet in the air.

"What, where, who?" jumps Remus, still feeling dizzy and sleepy.

"You, my friend, were sleeping in my kitchen and are currently completely drunk." he dutifully informs him.

"Fuck Pads!" exclaims Remus. The fact that he just used Sirius' nickname shows how drunk he truly is. "No need to be perverse."

"Yes, of course there's need of it, when you are dead to the world. It's the only way you react." then he takes a grab at him and makes him stand. "Come on, let's get going."

Fortunately Remus' room is on the first floor, and is reached it pretty easily. Remus stumbles into his bed exhaustedly.

"If you want to change fine, if you don't want to, fine! I don't care." Lupin observes his dark-haired friend rant through bleary eyes. "I'm not undressing you, I've already done it once in a day, and I don't really fancy doing it again." Remus' only burrows himself under the blanket, clothed still, and his answer is something of a groan that Sirius chooses to interpret as _OK_. "I'm not giving any awkward hugs either." Remus is asleep immediately, in less time that it takes to say quidditch. Sirius' shakes his head, at his friend and can't help thinking: _we really are not getting any younger_.

He leaves the room quietly and heads towards the one he's been using lately, on the second floor. He lays awake on his bed for a long time, feeling the minutes and hours slipping by pointlessly as he stares blankly at the ceiling. He sleeps only for a few hours, but it is not peaceful slumber. His eyes move frantically under his eyelids, and his mind, who has so ever successfully managed to be his greatest tormentor. His mind, the guiltiest party of a long-life condition of incurable insomnia, working at too many revolutions per minute to allow any true rest. But he doesn't complain, because he never does, he has learnt to live with it, even when his only hours of sleep are plagued by nightmares. He never complains. And he thinks ironically just after his eyes crack open as a resort again, the rest of the world does it for him often enough.


	18. Chapter 17: It Takes Two To Quarrel

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Seventeen – It takes Two to Quarrel**

Sirius is the first to stir in Grimmauld Place on the morning following Christmas Eve. He gives up sleep in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun is barely beginning to rise over London. He dons a sober dressing gown and scurries to the kitchen. As expected, there is no-one there. He cleans up the remnants of the eve's activities, and muses, while picking up the discarded empty bottles of liquor, that he'll have to prepare the anti-hangover potion because not all constitutions are as obliging as his and it is sure to be someone in need of it. He chuckles when he thinks how distraught those with luck lesser to him are when he awakes just fine after an evening with Mr Bottle.

If he can sleep, that is. He absentmindedly rubs his eyes, as he leaves a tray of plates by the sink. He is so tired he feels he ought to sleep for a fortnight; and still his eyes stubbornly insist in staying open. He walks to the fireplace and hangs a small cauldron with an iron hook suspended by a heavy chain. He drags a chair there and puts the ingredients close at hand; he starts stirring the potion absentmindedly, adding the ingredients when appropriate.

A bit past eight, Molly enters the kitchen herself. She greets him sleepily and starts shuffling through pots and pans by the stove. Turning around she comments in passing that he looks a bit tired. But as the clock chimes nine o'clock she disappears upstairs to wake up the rest of the household.

She reappears soon after, followed by the twins. Sirius raises his head from the stirring contents of the lilac potion at hearing the muffled sobs coming from the Weasley matriarch. Her face is pinched and her eyes are puffy and red from crying. He then, rises from his chair and moves over to her.

"What's wrong Molly?" asks. Then he turns to the twins that stand right behind their mother. "What happened?" the only response that he gets is George showing him a hand knitted jumper with a huge white letter P on it. Sirius understands it immediately.

"He…he…sent it…back…" says Molly in between sobs. "Percy…sent…it back… he didn't…even…write a…note." Sirius sits next to her and tries to comfort her, although he has to admit that he's rather lost.

"He doesn't deserve your tears if he behaves like this." he says softly. Perhaps he is not the most adequate shoulder to cry on about wayward sons leaving home.

"But…I want…him…back." cries the poor woman.

But only Circe knows that Walburga Black certainly hadn't wanted him back, much less would have spilt a tear over it, not a tear that wasn't out of spite of course.

"He'll end up coming around Molly, you'll see." he reassures her. "You're a great mother. He might not see it now, but he'll do sometime in the future. Someday, sooner or later, and then he'll come back. He just has some kind of teenage rebellion, only that he's not a teenager anymore so he does more harm to those that love him with it."

"What…if he…if…he doesn't?" asks Molly.

"I don't have an answer for that, Molly." answers Sirius honestly, where is Lupin when one needs him. That causes Molly to cry even harder. Sirius feels a bit more than inadequate at handling the poor sobbing woman's burst of emotion. Although he has to admit, grudgingly, that Molly is one hell of a mother; the kind everyone deserves to have. The boy must be bat blind.

"You shouldn't cry mum." says Fred, trying to help. "As Sirius said, he doesn't deserve you tears, anyone's tears."

"Yes, Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings." explains George. But their comments only manage that Molly bursts out crying even more than before. Seeing their success they discreetly leave the room, leaving the major task of convincing Molly to Sirius.

He calmly offers her tea, which has the rather fascinating ability to soothe away the tension in a room. He thrusts a cup into her hands ignoring that she'd rather ignore his soothing efforts. And as he doesn't have much advice to give, he listens instead, and internally shakes his head at the vain pretentious arrogance of the boy. He does advice her not to pressure him too much though; that can only end in heartbreak. About half an hour later Sirius has managed to calm down Molly, and she has started preparing breakfast, apparently it is her way of regaining some sense of normalcy in all her turmoil. The children appear soon after and join Sirius, waiting for Molly to finish with their breakfast.

"Merry Christmas." cry out the twins and Ginny as they entered the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas to you all." he answers with a grin.

"Oh," says Harry turning to Sirius. "thank you for the books."

"No problem, although it was Remus who bought them." he adds nonchalantly.

"Yeah, I wanted to thank him but I didn't see him."

"I don't think he'll show up for now." comments Sirius.

When Bill enters the kitchen, he's certainly not looking in his best, but… it could have been far worse. He looks a bit drowsy and still confused, Sirius assesses, but nothing too bad. Molly seems outraged, though.

"Bill, for the love of Morgana! You've got to control yourself. From all things, getting drunk on Christmas Eve!" the twins snigger and try to control laughter.

"I wasn't drunk!" Molly harrumphs and Sirius speaks first, to prevent her from going on.

"He's right, he didn't drink that much and left quite sober." he assesses calmly, yet Molly seems not to believe him. Although it might have something to do that he hasn't got Sirius standards and morals into the highest regard.

"Mum..." complains Bill. "I'm just sleepy and have a bit of head ache." that seems to convince her, to a point, at least for the moment. Then Bill turns to Sirius. "Is Tonks all right?"

"Yes, she left long ago and she was all right, a little sleepy but…" says Sirius, and with a crooked smile he adds. "Didn't manage a comprehensible goodbye."

"And the rest?" he asks checking on the clock as it is already a bit late. Sirius shrugs. "Normally they're already up by this time."

"I suppose Remus will come down anytime now. "he answers, knowledgeably. "And Reg… I don't know. I've never really seen him drunk..." he offers a good-natured shrug. "I'm lacking information to pinpoint when exactly he'll wake up."

Molly looks scandalized for a tad, on the other hand the twins are paying a lot of attention since the word _drunk_ made it into the conversation.

"I'm sure they'll be just fine. The last time I checked no one died from that." then he rises again. "Just got awful hangovers." He pulls a cabinet open and plucks something out, which he tosses into the hangover potion before performing a charm that makes the potion stir on its own. He doesn't make any more comments that may incur Molly's wrath, and later he sees the young ones leave in small procession.

They were halfway through breakfast when Remus decides to show up. He looks terrible, like he has been deprived from sleep and sunlight for a long time. But to be honest, so he does when the moon is close to being full. Sirius smirks maliciously, as he feels mischief override his bad moods of late.

"Good morning sleepy head!" he says rather loud. Remus winces at the sound and shakes his head quite like a dog just stunned by frying pan to the head. As a werewolf he has very sensitive hearing, being hungover just adds to the effect; and right now every single sound has the same effect as someone tap-dancing in his head.

"Please, talk quietly." he begs as he sits down.

He plops himself on a chair closer to Molly, in the hopes her treatment of him will be nicer than Sirius'. Molly instead, looks at him with a look he usually reserves for Sirius. He sighs at the persistent disapproving stare, and doesn't even think to come up with an apology.

"You won't have, by any chance, some of that miraculous potion, won't you?" he asks Sirius instead. Sirius grins, and makes a point of proving his mood is ridiculously good this morning.

"You didn't say the magic word." he intones. Remus jumps up and has to restrain himself from putting his hands over his sensitive ears.

"You are a truly cruel man." he says dryly. "You are enjoying this."

"Those weren't quite the magic words." is the answer, and Sirius passes by and claps his shoulder and the clap resonates up his neck into his skull.

"Please, Sirius." he whispers tiredly.

Sirius emits one of his bark-like laughs, that finally makes Remus clamp his hands over his ears, and screw his eyes shut.

"It is halfway done. It'll take a while to be ready." then he rises and grabs some toast and pumpkin juice. "Meanwhile, you should eat something."

Remus forces himself to eat after Molly's evil glare when he starts picking at it, although what he really wants to do is puke. The watchful gaze of Mrs. Weasley is unwavering, and he can swear she keeps huffing like a mother hen with ruffled feathers; which is probably the case if you have to listen to Sirius' complaining.

Sirius himself seems to have decided to have a bit of fun by torturing him, talking unnecessarily loud while the only people there are Bill, Molly and himself. It doesn't matter how many times Remus begs him to stop; he even insults him not-quite-subtly, more outright name-calling. It is useless. On top of it, Molly joins mutinously, against the natural order of the world, and starts doing a lot of unnecessary noise while washing the dishes, banging pots and pans together and making a terrible racket.

Molly has already started preparing lunch when the potion is finally ready; and good Ol' Moony has already suffered through several hangover-induced hours of penance. Sirius fills him a glass and places it in front of his friend.

"Wait a little before drinking." he advises as he sits back on his chair. "It's hot."

"Thanks." whispers the sandy-haired man. As he contemplates the sizzling menacing bright-purple concoction bubble threateningly in front of him.

"You are welcome." Sirius mutters in return.

He contemplates it aimlessly for a bit before scrunching his nose and gulping it down without much more though, it hurts to think right now. The thick potion makes its way down his throat and he gags and hisses when he lowers the glass, managing at the same time to throw Sirius an evil glare as he is sure that Sirius has purposefully forgotten to add some mint to make it less disgusting, although it is not supposed to be less effective.

Sometime later there is a loud bang and half uttered curses and other profanities heard on the stairs leading down to the basement kitchen. Molly, that has half-managed to forget it all works herself into a state in barely seconds and looks as if she might burst. Sirius only adds fuel to the proverbial fire when he comments wryly:

"Now, that's going to be a bad influence."

"You know he's mocking you don't you?" says Remus quietly turning to Molly, feeling totally unremorseful that he had likely put Sirius in another tight spot with Molly at the moment.

"Well, if you're going to be so bitchy Mr Smartmouth, I think I'll forget all about potions next time you go and try to get alcohol poisoning." is the only answer he gets, although it is delivered with flair.

Regulus enters the kitchens domains, looking even worse for wear than Remus, which is saying a considerable lot. He wears a deep dark scowl plastered on his face and has dark rings under his eyes. His skin looks chalky white, a bit ill really, and his eyes are squinted as if the light is hurting them, which it probably is. He is still wearing his dressing gown and looks every bit like he has been beaten up.

Sirius lets an arrogant smirk creep up his lips as he contemplates the sorry sight he makes. "Merry Christmas!" he calls out. The wince and the evil glare, so authentically Black; seem disturbingly satisfying.

"Don't start Sirius." Regulus hisses. "Merry is the last thing this forsaken Christmas is."

Molly seems to have transferred all her annoyance to the new addition to the kitchen, and resumes making as much noise as she can with the saucepans and kettles. Regulus though, much like Sirius, is rather impervious to her displeasure, if not her noise but he doesn't wince again. Sirius reckons he must have cast a muffling spell over himself when he woke up, the sly bastard.

"Don't talk to me about Merry Christmases." he grumbles as he plucks up a chair and slides on it quite gracelessly. "I've had a rather bad morning so far... I woke chocking because I had my dressing gown upside down. I tripped over my own shoes when I stood up. I crashed against the door frame in my way out while keeping my eyes shut. I fell down the stairs just now. I have a splitting headache and you sound like the Titanic announcing its departure." he stops in his hung-over rant a moment. "I trust I my made point." He places his head on his hands, and presses his eyes with the balls of his hands. Remus sniggers, as he his potion has already begun to make effect and can see the humorous side of the situation.

"Titanic?" asks Sirius shooting an inquiring look over his shoulder towards Remus.

"A boat." he says quietly, knowing full well Sirius will correctly interpret such a curt answer as a _'it's a muggle thing-you probably don't care about, I'm not bothering to explain because you couldn't possibly understand'_.

"By any chance you won't have a bit of anti-hangover potion?" asks Regulus, unawares of the silent conversation, totally off-topic, over his head. "Or a Tylenol as a second option?"

Remus sniggers and doesn't try to hide it, at the rest of the kitchen inhabitants' faces, who apparently doesn't know what a Tylenol is. Sirius fills a mug with anti-hangover potion and tries to push it into one of his brother's hands. Regulus, too busy cradling his aching head doesn't heed the offer and blindly bats it away, motioning for him to go away.

"You don't want it?" is Sirius' rather ruthlessly loud response. "Fine!" says heading for the sink.

Regulus, a bit alarmed by the gleeful humour in his brother's voice, raises his head to look what he is talking about and growls when he sees his mistake of enormous proportions. "No, wait!" says as he motions Sirius to give the glass back.

"Wait so it is not scalding; and its effects are not immediate." he warns.

"Cold bastard." mutters Regulus, nursing the mug between his cold hands, and eyeing Sirius blearily through his unkempt fringe. "You don't have one bit of a hangover."

Remus lets out a chocked laugh, and tries to hide his laughter behind his third cup of tea that morning. Regulus, still suffering from a massive hangover only grunts while ignoring the obviously on-the-mend werewolf. "You ought to join the club." the smug werewolf, was eyeing the man opposite him with a unexpected mirth considering he still has to have a headache.

Regulus, still too disgruntled by Sirius' state of perfect health makes a point not to ask what he is talking about, or to openly rebuff him either. Lupin's smile is gentle and his soft laughter even makes Sirius genuinely smile.

"Oh, I mean the _'Sirius is a jerk that gets drunk and never suffers from hangover'_ kind of club. – he explains calmly. "Although I'm not sure it's ever officially existed, it would have had enough followers, believe me." He is clearly having his fun. "I've never seen him with a hangover, nor completely drunk, and I feel like I've known him for too long." he adds as he deftly deflects a cuff from Sirius.

"Bloody bastard." is grunts Regulus, as he starts to drink the potion, now a ugly shade of fuchsia.

"I have it in good authority that my parents were married when they had me, sadly. You could go for a better insult; name-calling is dated Reggie." Regulus is sure that the withering glare would have been far more effective if he hadn't been suffering from a horrible headache.

"You deserved it." is the lame answer that he is able to put together.

"A truly interesting case..." says Sirius giving him a quick once-over, giving the impression of someone assessing a strange specimen. "A sentimental drunk that becomes grumpy during the ensuing hangover!" The conversation is clearly straying into forbidden territory by Molly's Standards; but Bill seems to find it all rather amusing.

"You tell rather interesting tales, old chap." he dutifully informs him. "Ones that involve beer, police officers, jail cells and the lot." Molly has clearly reached her breaking point in what refers to outrageous conversations and disappears harrumphing into the pantry.

"I didn't tell you that, did I?" Regulus asks warily, his head cocked as if measuring the veracity of Sirius' words beneath the taunting.

"Yes, you did. With a thousand more amusing stories that happen to be perfect blackmailing material." Regulus groans.

"Lies all lies! And I don't remember a thing." he says bad-humoredly. Sirius's face slumps into a worried look, too real not to be faked.

"Does that mean that you don't remember having had The Conversation?" he asks in a horrified note. –"Argh! Last think I need is a second performance."

Bill has to grant that Sirius can be very dramatic when he feels like it, which of course, Lupin already knows. Regulus drops his head against the table dejectedly, and wearily massages his temples while debating if it would be a better idea just to drown himself or cast an obliviate on everyone, especially Sirius the Git. Apologies while drunk are meant to get screwed up. He groans as his head hits the wooden table.

"I feel like I had a goblin dancing a polka on my head." is his answer to the brotherly taunting.

"That will teach you not to drink." says Molly sternly, lips pursed while coming out of the pantry after rummaging for something small, he can't quite figure out what.

"Probably" mutters Remus. "But I still agree with him."

"About what?" asks Bill, who is comfortably slumped to one of the chairs by the fire, clearly too lazy to do anything on Christmas day.

"About Sirius being a lucky bastard. My hangover hasn't completely worn off you see." he explains Remus, talking quietly of course. "And somehow, he always manages to get me wasted."

"One would think that after thirteen years of forced sobriety he would be out of practice." says Bill. "Sorry Sirius, but I think you live off the legend of past glories."

Sirius manages to look as if pleased by a clumsy compliment. "Should I be pleased?" he asks wryly. "You just equalled me to the responsible person of the evening then."

"Which is most definitely wrong." says calmly Lupin.

"I assure you, practise has nothing to do with any of it." says regretfully Regulus. "I've been getting systematically drunk at least once a week for sixteen uninterrupted years and the aftermaths are always horrible." Molly makes a strangled sound and looks disapprovingly at him over her shoulder, but Bill and Sirius burst out laughing.

"If you really did it, you are more masochistic than I thought." says Sirius dryly.

"You left me alone where Jesus lost his sandals, what was I supposed to do?" he says grumpily, the hangover starting to wane thanks to that nearly-miraculous potion.

"_Who_ lost his sandals?" was Sirius rather insolent question.

"It's a form of speech Sirius." says Regulus irritated. "The only thing to do _there_ was church and football, and I'm not really keen on any of them."

"You know, if you babbled then as much as you babbled last night it's a miracle you didn't end up locked up for talking about _weird stuff_ like magic, or alerting the whole of the German Chancellery for breaking the Statutes of Secrecy." was Sirius' rather annoying observation.

"You forget something." mutters his younger brother.

"What exactly?"

"That my German's horrible, and no I'm not being humble I'm quoting you back... and besides, when I babble I do it in English" he says dryly.

"You are really a sunshine this morning, oops, near noon." comments Sirius. "I would've though having a night of fun would loosen you up, I see I was wrong."

"I'm really not in the mood for your sarcasm." says Regulus curtly.

"Well, with a bit of luck your brains will be working again by dinner time." is Sirius' answer as he slumps finally on a chair, after an hour of pacing the kitchen back and forth carrying things and standing by the counters and generally getting in Molly's way.

Regulus' grimace of pain at the scraping noise is met with Molly hitting viciously the kettle with the spoon, causing him to wince again. Then, Sirius' eyes are drawn to his brother's choice in attire, which mainly consisted of the famously hideous dressing gown. So when his aristocratic nose wrinkles in distaste, Regulus is almost sure of what he is going to say.

"If I were you, I would get rid of those" says Sirius pointing to the dressing gown. "they're really an eyesore."

Regulus looks no more convinced this time. "I'll get dressed the moment I can bring my legs to climb the stairs again." he answers, as it is pointless to discuss with Sirius if colours are or are not of any deep significance. "I don't understand why such a fuss. It's a perfectly useful robe; it has two sleeves, a belt, no holes, what else do you want?"

"A normal colour?" Remus' rough laugh, is quickly muffled but is still there. Gryffindors tended to be somewhat offended by Slytherin colours. A childish outlook on things, but widely spread.

"It's just green. Since when did green became odd?" he asks defiantly.

"Forget it." snaps Sirius, a good measure of his light mood vanishing. "Just remember to make that disappear before noon. I've got better things to do." he says before leaving.

Around noon both men's hangover has almost worn off, although in Regulus' case, he is still very grumpy. He has been sent up to dress properly by Sirius, who drops by the kitchen from time to time, until Molly chases him away from the food again. Tonks, Mundungus and Mad-Eye drop by Grimmauld Place soon after everyone is almost ready.

The programmed visit to Mr Weasley to St Mungo goes without a hitch. The house is meanwhile left silent again, empty but for its legitimate owners. It is while they are alone that, wand in hand; Sirius crosses his arms over his narrow chest while he looms significantly over a reclined Regulus, who is gracious enough to lower his newspaper to allow a clear view his brother's slanted smirk.

Regulus internally sighs. There were reasons why people should be aware of a gleeful Sirius Black; mostly because it never bodes well. Sirius' mirth is more often than not, not innocent at all.

"What is it now Sirius?" asks the younger brother, a bit weary as he doesn't exactly know where the wind will blow from this time, still standing on unsteady feet in that strained relationship of theirs.

"As your hangover has improved considerably..." says with a malicious tone. "I thought I could put those hands of yours into good use… It's time you stop dragging your spoiled self around and do something useful. Go clean something!"

Regulus only grunts, growls in a manner very similar to what Padfoot would've done and scurries away, throwing the newspaper in the air so the pages flow disorderedly around and over Sirius' head. _Well, at least he's talking to me._ A hopeful inner voice pipes up. _Although I really don't know why that should be good._

::::::::::::::

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix are in upheaval. The crowds in it are, mostly in their process of packing their meagre possessions in views of their imminent return after Christmas holiday break. The bell clangs loudly, and it resounds over the subdued noises in the building. It is Sirius the one who opens the door to a most undesired visit; but it has to be Molly the one to invite Snape to come in.

"What do you want?" is the first he is asked as soon as he is in, in true business-like fashion; not the usual _how are you_'s or _have a nice holiday_'s.

"Nothing with you, Black." Sirius is already seething, and Snape's only been here for minutes. "It's Potter I have to talk with."

"Whatever you have to say to him you can tell me." Sirius has de distinct impression that Snape's just ruined what was left of his day. Even Mrs Weasley looks a bit tense

"I said I have to talk with Potter, I'm on Dumbledore's orders," he sneers contemptuously. "Otherwise I assure you I wouldn't."

He turns around and leads Snape to the kitchen, he is very aware that he is acting as if he didn't want to let Snape loose in the House, but he really thinks it might be very nice if one of his father's nasty animation works eats him up, it would be one of the few true uses for them, only that he'd rather not see him for much longer than necessary. He is suddenly very happy that the kitchen tables are the most uncomfortable thing ever; at least the bastard shall have an uncomfortable time while here.

When hesitantly Harry comes in; Snape removes a letter from his tunic and shows it to them, it _is_ a letter from Dumbledore. Sirius keeps glaring at Snape. Any other man with a bit more sensibility would have shrunk back from that look, but it is Snape after all. And Snape seems bent over not letting that look intimidate him; a look that has never failed to disquiet almost anyone else; it is a look too abysmally cold and at the same crackling with the fierce intensity of the hundred suns of his hatred for the little vile man in front of him.

"Er…" says Harry as he enters the kitchen, trying to make his presence noticeable and shuffling his feet a bit. Snape turns to him, looking darkly behind that greasy curtain of hair Sirius used to courteously try and help him get rid of with a most trusty balding hex when they were younger.

"Sit down Potter."

"You know" says Sirius as he leans in the back on his chair with apparent indifference. "I think I'd prefer if you didn't give orders here, Snape. It _is_ my house, just so you know."

And he watches with satisfaction as Snape seems to flush, although if it was for shame or rage he can't exactly pinpoint, and he really doesn't care. Harry sits next to Sirius.

"I hoped to see you alone Potter." says Snape with a mocking smile. "But Black…"

"I'm his godfather." cuts him Sirius, leaving no room to answers.

"And I'm here a Dumbledore's command..." Snape's voice is a hiss. "but, if you still want to stay, Black, I know you must feel,… excluded."

"What's that supposed to mean?" says Sirius, leaning forwards and letting the four legs of the chair hit the ground with a loud clang.

"Just that I'm sure that you must feel, mm… frustrated due to the fact that you can't do anything useful…" he marks the words carefully. "… for the Order."

Sirius' face pales even more than usual in rage, and the pinch in the corners of his mouth speaks of a great amount of self-control that is about to go out the window. With no reply forthcoming, the triumphant smile of Snape turns then to Harry.

"The Headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it's his wish that you study Occlumency for the rest of the year."

_Occlumency. So that is Dumbledore's answer to all this weird dream business._ Thinks Sirius. And immediately after he gets a bit upset that no-one thought of teaching that to a boy who's had more run-ins with lord Voldemort than anyone else.

"Study what?" asked Harry, breaking the frantic workings of his thoughts.

"Occlumency, Potter. The magic that studies the defence of the mind against external penetrations. A dark branch of magic, but useful."

Sirius keeps staring at Snape, piercing him with his eyes; even if he thinks that it is truly necessary to make Harry learn the basics.

"Why have I to study Occlu,… that thing?" asks, looking terrified.

"Because the Headmaster things is it a good idea." says Snape. "You'll have private lessons once a week, but you can't tell anyone what are you doing, and less to Dolores Umbridge, understood?"

"Yes." answers Harry. "But who's going to teach me?"

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Me." says sternly. Harry turns to Sirius for help.

Sirius doesn't see him though. He's internally seething and about to strangle someone. He'd even take his chances chocking Dumbledore by now. Sirius isn't stupid, in fact, far from it; he is a lot more observant than people give him credit for. Most of the time even if people don't realise, he just sits in his corner and watches people and as a result he usually knows things about people that they don't know about themselves. And this time he knows that making Snape teach Harry Occlumancy, of all things is a terrible idea.

Occlumancy is a dodgy subject, dead useful, he has to agree. He knows that Snape has to be really good at it, otherwise he would already be dead; Lord Voldemort doesn't take betrayal lightly. Considering that he is not a double agent as Sirius has been saying all along, that is. He also knows that there are many other people who could do better by Harry. Dumbledore for starters, or even himself; although he knows that it is not possible.

He also knows that Harry isn't made to practice Occlumancy. He knows it with a certainty that scares him. Harry has all that jumble of emotions bubbling just under his skin that they are almost palpable.

Sirius has practiced Occlumancy since he was old enough to learn it from his father, which is very young, all through his troubled teenage years, up to today. It is one of the few things he is infinitely grateful to his old man for. Not many people know, although they should suspect him after the outcome of his ordeal in Azkaban, but Sirius is very gifted in occlumency. Unlike Harry, whose feelings are too near the surface and very honest about himself, Sirius is the kind of man who has learnt to compartmentalize his life and his emotions; different areas in his life run parallel, each in different and separate compartment without interacting at all. He's always had to. Having grown up being forced to retreat inside himself in order to survive the darkness that seemed to leak out of the walls of his house, Sirius knew even as a child that no one was what they pretend to be. Sirius is not proud of it; he knows Occlumancy is just another form of deceit, even if sophisticated. He can shut down pity, he can shut down compassion, he can shut down empathy at will; he can fortify himself to the point you wouldn't recognise him, he can almost annulate all the good side of himself. Rage and anger are the only things that are left when you hide yourself under the walls of the mind.

He's learnt and used his mask, he looked the deep recesses of his mind, for the first time under his father's watching eye. Even in the happy times, when the most important part of his life was James, and Peter, and Remus, he hid things from them too; mostly his past and his emotional attachment to that past. He'd often liked to believe that it didn't exist. In the war he'd done it all the time. Dumbledore didn't trust him when his immediate reaction to any contact from those twinkling blue eyes was to shut down immediately under a prison of steel. Maybe it is a bit arrogant of him to think so, but most likely Dumbledore has never been able to read him. He is probably one of the few people who has ever dared to lie to him, not out of hatred or opposition, of course, and has succeeded. It cost him his trust the first time. But it also would have allowed him to lie and pose as the secret keeper faultlessly had Peter not gone and done what he did. Otherwise he would have never managed to keep Regulus a secret, or keep his good memories so locked up not even the dementors found them.

Occlumancy is for those who are afraid of human weakness, and Harry is not. Now Harry needs to learn _that_ of all things, and he cannot help him in this, as he cannot help the Order with anything else. He trusts he will learn the basics; even Regulus, open as he was as a small child learnt a sufficient bit; not enough that he, Sirius, who is his brother cannot read him, but enough to survive a war. But the big difference is that Sirius or Regulus had wanted to learn, Harry is repulsed by it, he's scared. And Snape is going to wallow in it like a pig in the mud.

"Why can't Dumbledore teach Harry himself?" asks Sirius. "And why you?"

"I suppose because it's the Headmaster's privilege to delegate less important tasks." then his voice turns into a hiss. "I assure you I didn't beg for the job. I'll wait you at six on the afternoon on Monday, Potter in my office, if anyone asks, you are taking potions lessons, anyone that has seen you in my class could deny that you need them."

"Hold a second." says Sirius as he straightens up in his chair. Snape looks at him as someone would look at a fly. Which does nothing good to Sirius flying temper.

"I don't have time, Black… unlike you. I don't have endless time."

"I'll be brief then." says scathingly Sirius as he raises. Even across the table is obvious that he is taller than Snape by more than a headspan. Sirius stares at him evenly with his usual guarded expression securely in place. There are thunderclouds in his eyes and perfect proud features seem to make easier the air of disdain. His face speaks of ageless importance, the curve of his high cheekbones and wide brow aristocratically faultless. He is one of the few people who can still loom menacingly while being shirtsleeves with their forearms bare. Snape must have indeed felt menaced because he draws his hand out of his pocket immediately.

"If I listen you are using that classes to ill treat Harry, you'll have my answer." is his otherwise mild threat. But the tone of his voice is no less fearsome than any other time he's menaced Snape.

"How touching." mocks Snape. "But you'll probably have realised that Potter is so very much like his father."

"Yes, I've realised." says Sirius with a hint of pride in his voice, but sharply.

"Then, you'll know that he's so arrogant that critics only irritate him." says Snape.

If there is something he cannot stand is him talking about James of all people. James Potter was a good friend. He had all the essential qualities that a good friend must possess: he always backed you up in an argument, even if you were wrong; he was understanding of your failures and liked you for who you were; he would take the blame for you, even if it meant evoking someone else's wrath. Only the last one only worked if you were Remus or Peter, he apparently always considered Sirius could handle himself. Sirius'd heard by James's side a thousand diatribes of why it was wrong to be mean to poor Snivellus, who in reality got as good as he gave. Only that apparently the world was blind to see the gormless bastard had poison instead of spit. And nobody did anything when he used a position of power to humiliate someone who couldn't defend himself; just thought that it couldn't be helped. And that is something neither he nor James had ever done.

Snape insulting his dead friend makes his blood boil, and his patience fuse comes short. Sirius throws aside his chair and heads towards Snape with long strides, drawing his wand with a fluent motion that belies the fact that he has been in possession of a wand for only a few months. Snape is furious, and so is Sirius. Snape looks from Sirius wand to his face.

Harry tries in vain to avoid a fight breaking out in the kitchen.

"I warned you, Snivellus." says Sirius, with his face at mere inches from Snape's, the tip of his wand centimetre from stabbing itself into the Potions Master's ribs. "I don't care if Dumbledore thinks that you've reformed, I know better…"

"Oh, then why don't you tell him?" hisses Snape. "Or are you afraid that he won't take very seriously the advice of a man who's been hiding in his mother's house for the past six months?"

"Tell me, how's Lucius Malfoy these days? I hope he's happy with the fact that his lapdog is working at Hogwarts, isn't he?"

"Talking about dogs." says Snape almost softly. "do you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you the last time that you made a little excursion? A very bright idea, Black, allowing to be seen in a safe train platform… gave you the perfect excuse for staying in your hiding place, no?"

Sirius raises his wand. Maybe if Snape had taken a step back instead of staying put out of sheer stubbornness wouldn't have found the thin greying stick inches away from his jugular.

"No!" yells Harry as he places himself in between the two men.

"Are you calling me a coward?" is Sirius' angry roar as he tried to get Harry out of the way, putting his free hand in his shoulder, but he simply won't move.

"Harry. Get. Out. Of here!" he snaps.

The door of the kitchen bursts open and almost everyone that is currently in the house appears in the threshold. All look really happy, with Mr Weasley walking proudly in the middle of them all dressed with a stripped pyjama, covered by a raincoat.

"Healed!" says loudly. "Completely healed!"

They freeze at the door frame, staring at the scene in front of them. It takes them seconds to spring apart although you could cut the tension with a knife.

"For Merlin's beard!" says Mr Weasley, the smile leaving his face. "What's going on here?"

They lower their wands. Both have a genuinely unpleasant look of disdain on their faces, although the sudden arrival of the Weasleys' made them come to their senses. Snape turns around and heads towards the exit, passing the in front of the new arrivals looking at them in disgust. Regulus, almost at the back glares at him with murderous intent. Still he stops by him and turns around.

"Six o'clock, Monday morning, Potter." says before disappearing, a by the time he reaches the top of the stairs he is limping, and Regulus looks inordinately satisfied.

"What happened?" asks Mr Weasley.

"Nothing Arthur." answers Sirius his nose flaring in distaste. "just a friendly chat between two old school friends." said making a huge effort to smile, but it comes out all wretched and he is definitely showing too much teeth. "So… you're healed? That's good news, really good."

That night's dinner is also pleasant, and there is a relaxed mood in which Sirius doesn't quite feel included. Despite his efforts to be a nice host, he looks preoccupied, and he is quieter than normal, which is very quiet indeed. Those who know him better can tell that he is still mad about the quarrel with Snape. He has to force himself to laugh when a joke is told and doesn't quite remember to offer more food to everyone. It is not until the following day he gets to breech the subject without feeling the need to claw his eyes out coming forth.

"I don't trust Snape." he says Sirius, as he waches the dishes wash themselves. "Why has to be him the one to teach him?"

"If Dumbledore trusts him, then we must trust him." says Mr Weasley gently, far more resignedly than he would take anything regarding Lucius Malfoy.

"I agree with Sirius." says Regulus who, as by now is widely known, despises Snape. "He's not trustworthy, no matter if he's one of us. I know him, unfortunately, and I know he'll use any excuse to hurt the boy…" Tonks looks a bit unsettled by this assessment of character, and is about to reply when: "… because words can hurt as much as hexes."

Sirius just nods.

"There's nothing we can do." answers Remus with a helpless shrug. "If Dumbledore has appointed him for this then we must accept it."

He then makes up his mind to be sure Harry will be able to tell him immediately if something goes wrong. Before leaving Sirius manages to corner Harry for a moment.

"I want you to have this." he says quietly as he places a badly wrapped packet of the size of a pocket book in Harry's hands.

He was afraid he'd have to look for that set of mirrors everywhere, but was pleasantly surprised to find them where he last hid them. That pair of mirrors are the only thing he can think off to avoid dangerous fireplace conversations. He just prays Molly never learns of it, or he'll accuse him of confusing Harry with James. Although nothing could be more indicative of how parental is his worry about all this. He is planning of leaving his mirror somewhere where he is likely to hear a call. He expects Regulus will not be angry to learn what happened to the communicating mirror he'd thought he lost; because he plans to ask his help for that.

"What's this?" asks Harry.

"It's a way of knowing if Snape is bothering you. But don't open it here." says Sirius as he watches Mrs Weasley by the corner of his eyes. "I doubt Molly would approve of it, but I want you to use it if you need me, ok?"

"Alright." says Harry as he places it in his pocket. Then he sees Harry say his farewells to everyone, even Regulus is there to say goodbye, in that emotionally awkward way of his. He is starting to like the boy, even if he finds him a bit naïve, but not at all as arrogant as he had expected.

"Well, Sirius…" says Harry turning to his godfather. Sirius just gives up and pulls him into a quick one-armed hug.

"Take care of yourself Harry." says with his deep voice.


	19. Chapter 18: Grin and Bear It

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen – Grin And Bear It**

A few days after Molly and Arthur go back to the Burrow, their tiding up labour restarts with furious energy, renewed by the new hopes brought by the New Year. Sirius' grouchy mood slowly disappears, progressively, only to be replaced by an eerily normal kind of mood with more than a slight fondness for bickering. He slowly starts cornering his grumpiness by actively seeking verbal confrontations with his brother and whomever member of the Order passes by that day.

After half a month cleaning the basement library Sirius decides to abandon the titanic task for a while. He has been at it all the time but for the few hours he takes here and there to decode some intercepted message for the Order or work on some obscure thing or other, for which he doesn't have to set a foot outside the library either.

"I see books, shelves and dust even in my dreams." is the only explanation he gives. Regulus refrains from sniggering and dons a preoccupied and sympathetic look on his face which is sure to cause a great deal of irritation.

"A sleep which is rare and brief." he says completely serious; he _does_ wonder how Sirius can sleep so little and still have such depthless reserves of energy.

Sirius only scowls and throws him an armload of parchment scrolls he was getting out of the way after rearranging the duty rooster again, because Nymphadora's hours at the Ministry are meant to generate madhouse material.

Sirius ends up cleaning up his father's office and the library archive. Task at which he emphatically refuses Regulus help, on the premises that he is more likely to do more harm than good, and that he'd rather keep his brother as far as he can from the papers for he is as brilliant with them as Uncle Alpahard used to be. Sheer laziness prevents Regulus from a heartfelt complaint and he just has to agree that maybe that is not his thing.

That morning breakfast is already cold, and the eggs have a gummy feel to them that prompts you not to look at them very closely. The kitchen smells of stale air, and the air is humid because yesterday saw the city covered in a thin blanket of snow, that doesn't even deserve the name of snow anymore. The streets are muddy, the sky is leaden and, as every time that snows, that horrible damp stain has appeared again on the kitchen's left ceiling corner.

Regulus is staring bleakly at it wondering idly if it is worth the effort getting rid of it when Lupin returns form one of his unspeakable missions looking worn and worried, only to find him there.

"What's wrong Lupin?" asks the youngest Black, who by now has become accustomed enough to him to notice he's upset. Lupin shakes his head as if to shake off a bad feeling and wordlessly hands over a newspaper with the ink still wet. Regulus eyes widen noticeably, and for a moment his face takes on an alarmed look as he reads.

_MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN_

_MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS 'RALLYING POINT' FOR OLD DEATH EATERS_

_The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban. Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, confirmed that ten high security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals. 'We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped,' said Fudge last night. 'Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals, and we beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached.'_

Beneath the text there were three large pictures, and they read _Antonin Dolohov, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett; Augustus Rookwood, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic secrets to He Who Must Not Be Named; Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom._

The last picture captures his eyes immediately, the familiarity of the woman's features drawing his eyes in. The woman has long dark hair that looks unkempt and straggly were it had been dark sleek, thick and shining with health and care. She glares up at him through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth, which once a long time ago had been full and luscious. A shiver goes down his spine as he continues to look at the picture. _Bellatrix_. Like Sirius, she retains vestiges of a great beauty, but Azkaban has robbed her of her youth and her beauty. The truth is that where she had been undeniably seductive, concealing her madness and her cruelty under the promise of sensuality, now the only word he can think of to describe her is _repulsive_.

And then, there is also Dolohov; that part Ukrainian sadistic madman that went about with Karkakoff in the good old days. Who killed the Prewetts, and Sylvia Cattermole, and a guy called Thompson and one of the Smethwyck brothers, the one who used to be an auror. His face, long, pale and twisted sneering perpetually has a scar in the corner of an eye that makes it droop, which he doesn't remember him having before. Azkaban has done him great damage, and he looks servile now that a prison officer got rid of the carefully maintained goatee. He never met Rookwod for more than five minutes, and he does not remember him that well, but the pockmarked man with greasy hair who is leaning against the edge of his picture, and looking magnificently bored, doesn't look half as magnificent as he used to.

"I need to talk to Sirius." says Lupin. "Any idea where he is?"

Regulus shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the paper, and Lupin sighs and trudges back upstairs. Meanwhile his eyes have affixed themselves on Bellatrix's photograph once again.

He feels a bit numb, too shocked to be properly scared yet. And he is still undecided whether to laugh or to outright cry. He feels a tangle of emotions welling up in him, and feels rather grateful he's alone.

For a long time he was more scared of his eldest cousin than anything else, but even like that he can swear that he's never been fond of her. And he's never allowed himself to, but he knows that it will take only this little titbit more for him to hate her. She's mad, and she is dangerous, and now she is free and has fourteen years of seclusion to make up for. Bellatrix on the loose means disappearances, mangled corpses and panic in the streets. She is probably the only one barbaric enough to truly believe in the ideas of Voldemort; and not in the ambitions of power that they allow most purebloods. She'd probably kill him if she knew he was alive.

Suddenly it occurs to him that they don't say who else is on the list.

He hears voices coming down the stairs, and Lupin and Sirius appear from behind the door. Sirius snatches up the paper, snapping him out of his mental wanderings. He frowns as he reads.

"Bunch of incompetent arseholes." says as he sits down. "Dumbledore warned them that the dementors would try and join Voldemort." he says slamming the newspaper on the table forcefully, and an empty cup of coffee shakes so hard that almost rolls off its saucer. "And it has already happened."

Regulus wonders if Sirius has yet registered that the Ministry is blaming this whole fiasco on him.

"Dumbledore is really concerned about the escaped Death Eaters." comments Remus. "Before he had only twelve Death Eaters under his command, with these, their numbers raise to twenty-two."

"They are hooked and masked buffoons." says Sirius contemptuously, glaring murderously to the pictures plastered on the front page. "It is largely acknowledged that while the Death Eaters attempt to do bad things, mostly just do things badly."

"They're buffoons that kill in any case." points out Remus. "And who the Ministry won't be looking for in the right places. They're trying to conceal the real cause of the break out."

"Yes, they are blaming you instead; while such a massive breakout couldn't have been performed by one person and without the help of the dementors, no way." says Regulus irritated. "Even a fool should be able to see it."

"I know, but lately, everything that goes askew is Sirius' fault." says Remus as he sits down too.

"The downfall of the Roman Empire was also my fault." says Sirius bitingly.

"But after this, there's no way that they keep denying that the Dark Lord is back." says Regulus, he looks exasperated. "With Bella on the loose there'll be dead people in no time."

"I don't think he'll let her." Sirius says grimly. "He's waiting for something still. He doesn't seem willing to let himself be known; he'd rather put us in a tight spot with the Ministry for a while more."

"She's mad."

"And Dolohov is a sadistic creep." counters Lupin.

"I wonder why they don't say who the other seven are." muses Sirius aloud. "Do you know?"

Lupin shakes his head ruefully.

"No-one knows yet. The Ministry hasn't said, and Dumbledore still doesn't know." he returns cautiously. "Can't you guess? They were high-security prisoners."

_Just like you. Same corridor even._

"From there, and whom Voldemort could still find useful?" he seems to mull it over. "Well... the Lestranges, that makes five of them. Then my guess is Callahan, Mulciber and Amycus Carrow..."

"Him, only him?" asks Regulus. "What about her?"

"The Bitch? I did never see her there." Sirius answers.

"She wasn't prosecuted even. Alecto Carrow walked out free; managed to make herself look all innocent, and they believed her." says Remus.

"And for the other two, I have no idea... all the rest were pretty bad off." Sirius trails off. "Not that knowing would be that useful, think about it; the escapees won't be going out anytime soon, so you won't have to look out for them just yet."

"Who knows, it is usually hard enough keeping track of the ones we know about..."

"Well, I don't think complaining will do us much good." says Sirius, acting as he really doesn't care. "There's nothing we can do, if the aurors didn't catch me, they won't catch them either. They'll use their ancestral homes just as I am doing, and they'll have lots of help, which I didn't have.

"Dumbledore thought that everyone in the Order should know," says Remus. "that's why I came."

"Oh, for a moment I thought that you came for the sake of conversation."

"This is not time for this, Sirius." says Remus with a frown. "I should go. Make sure to tell this to everyone that comes, alright?"

After they hear the front door closing with a bang Mrs Black's screams can be heard floating down on them, oppressive and blood-curling; just as the silence hanging between them. The minutes stretch painfully and only the upstairs racket and a leaking tap can be heard

"She must be so mad." Sirius looks up at Regulus. "You managed to do something major before she did. You escaped Azkaban before she did."

And Sirius knows he speaks of Bellatrix; who has always announced boastfully to the world that she is the perfect specimen of the pure-blooded Black, and that she'd been the perfect heir had she been male. She was always the best, and hated being reminded that she wasn't.

::::::::::::::

The air seems thicker after the news of the breakout, it's seemed like the weather is trying to make it noticeable too. The days are darker and colder, and the clouds haven't let up.

It is then when Sirius takes the habit of locking himself up in the late Mr Black's study when he wants to think, or feels like brooding alone, which is often. And everyone soon learns that when he is in there, he isn't to be disturbed. In fact, the only two who ever dare are those who perforce have to as they live in the same house. But mostly they heed the invisible but noticeable sign that seems to hang warningly that clearly forbids any disturbance.

It is a Friday evening; an uneventful evening, and Sirius stands next to the window of the study, gazing at the street, half hidden behind the heavy hangings so he would have stayed invisible to someone on the street if the house could possibly be seen by someone unawares. It is raining outside, and he is resting his forehead on the cool glass, allowing his mind to wander to Harry and the different members of the Order and their missions, trying in vain to ignore the feeling of uselessness that the current arrangement leaves him with.

More death eaters on the loose don't do anything to improve his ill-humour and his thoughts keep turning towards it, and a great load of bitterness rises again every time he thinks that all has been in vain, and they are back to square one.

Idleness doesn't sit well with him, and his idle mind keeps conjuring up a mocking smile, a half maddened laugh. And how can the forces of nature allow the existence of such a disturbed person? He knows he shouldn't allow himself to wallow in the human misery of his blood. Hatred comes up in tidal waves as he thinks of his mad cousin, her mere existence like nails scraping on a blackboard. It does bother him more than it should considering he professes to be indifferent to blood ties. But he isn't, it is one of his secrets, and he can't think objectively about her. He hates how, since he can remember, he's been told of the great resemblance between them.

Is that resemblance wistful thinking? He'd like to think so, but he cannot outright dismiss it if he wants to be truthful. Did he look as crazed as her when he escaped? Did his eyes look so soulless? And more important, was he truly as ruthless in his purpose as her? Was he...?

His thoughts are interrupted by the clicking sound made by the doorknob turning at his back.

"Are you ok?" asks Regulus, who has just entered the room very quietly. Sirius rolls his eyes disdainfully.

"Why is that you seem to be the only one that doesn't understand that I am not to be bothered when I'm in here?" he says without even turning around to face his brother. Regulus simply ignored his contempt.

"You haven't gone out of here for two days; I have the right to be bothered by it." He says calmly. "Lupin passed by thrice asking for you, I told him that you didn't wish to be disturbed." Sirius finally turns to look at him in the eye.

"Is he here now?"

"No, he left two hours ago."

"Why didn't you come to tell me earlier? Why did you come at all?"

"He told me not to." He replies calmly. "he said that you'd come down when you felt like it." Sirius rolls his eyes, that sounds so Remus. "...but I thought that I would better come here and check that you hadn't died and no one had noticed." he says dryly. "Besides I had to remind you that there is a meeting tomorrow."

"Well, thanks for the interest, I'm fine." he says, answering to Regulus first question. "But let it be known that here I want to be alone, and you need not come for me, unless the world is sinking or there's a really beautiful woman selling her virtue asking for me at the front door."

"Then, you shall be warned if there ever comes to be such a lady there." he returns unflappably before leaving Sirius very well alone.

He smiles inwardly. Twenty years ago he would have found his brother's retort crass and crude, and he'd have never dignified it with an answer. Now he can see the fine cynicism behind it and has come to appreciate the dry dark sense of humour in which it is soaked. Life has curious sense of humour; and it makes fools of us so often...

::::::::::::::

Regulus dabs two, three times more the blackened gaping hole with the dampened cloth. Satisfied he lowers the rag soaked into the putrid solution and picks up his wand again. He taps the burn thrice and mutters an enchantment, he watches with satisfaction as the blue velvet of the ancient tapestry closes under his fingers. He then taps again close to the interrupted golden thread and watches as the string magically comes to life ad starts twisting and twirling over itself to form the words _Isla (1843-1898)__1__._ Immediately after, as if by magic a second person appears beside her, _Bob Hitchens (1843-1908)_ linked by a double line and with a vertical line coming in between them, _1 son_, it signals. It happens every time a new generation is added to the Black family tree; those descendants that bear not the Black name are only referred to, to save space.

It will make a week since Regulus started restoring the old tapestry. It took him to lower himself in front of Sirius and ask Mundungus Fletcher for a kit fit for such endeavours. The smelly potion has to be applied one by one to all the damaged areas, tearing and burns, only to be sewed magically again.

"I don't see why that's so important to you." had said Sirius, as he watched the proceedings over his shoulder. "It's a waste of time."

Regulus had shrugged and kept shaking the potion vial, sitting cross-legged in front of the foot of the tapestry.

"It is important." he'd said.

Regulus has always believed that family is family whatever happens, and blood ties cannot be denied. That is probably why he will never completely understand either Sirius nor his parents. So many people burnt out of the family lines just for the sake of blood purity. But it comes down that you might come across a cousin you don't even know is your cousin because they have been erased from memory. Knowing they existed is important; giving them at least a few square inches of cloth is not too much to ask.

He started with Sirius, who is still very much alive and breathing, and not even legally disowned, and on top of all that, owns the tapestry itself. Afterwards it looked like he'd never been gone. Now there is no date of death for Regulus Black born in 1961, and there is a third sister between Bellatrix and Narcissa, who is married and has one daughter named Nymphadora.

"This'll take you forever." comments Tonks, who's just finished perusing her name.

"If nothing changes soon, I have forever." he answers. She snorts.

"Have you ever thought what will happen when there is no more room to grow downwards?" she asks eyeing critically the five inches left of empty space to the floor. Sufficient to cram four more generations in there. "Not to mention that you'll have the same problem sideways if you keep adding families.

Regulus sighs a bit irritated and says he doesn't know.

"But it won't grow sideways." he tells her. He points her name. "Once there is a new generation to have children; to say my or Sirius' hypothetical children had children in turn, you, the non blacks of that generation would disappear.

"Oh, great. Now we are expendable." she whines, looking upwards. "What are family trees for if you can't see everybody? I don't know why you bother if it can't show everybody."

"Because he's more traditional than the Christmas tree." says Sirius, who's lounging and watching him battle the burnt scar of Cedrella Black with aloof amusement. "And don't be foolish Dora, we can't have everybody in it, we'd be out of house in no time."

You can tell it had once been a beautiful tapestry; and he supposes that you could still call it beautiful, but now it is another very different kind of beautiful. It has now the antique majestic and severe kind of beauty of doom. It is a beauty that's always fascinated Regulus, a call from the past and perhaps if you squint enough it whispers about the future, only perhaps.

There are a hundred good reasons why he has to do this. If everyone has his place in the House of Black, if they all do with their varied offenses and depravity and crimes of different nature, then maybe he can have his place back too. Maybe then Sirius can too. He'd not erase one single person from the family tree, not even if they had murdered the Minister for magic himself, if only to have a reminder.

He dabs another burn with the product soaked cloth a few times, he takes the wand from between his teeth, and taps the tapestry, once, twice again, and _Virginia (1769-1825) _appears beside one of the many Regulus, he's truly lost the count. And he thinks amused, that nobody has had the decency to number them, because they're mostly second-born children. Pensively he sticks his wand again between his teeth.

"You're going to blow your teeth off."

Regulus starts, and twists around to see Sirius in a crouch barely a few inches behind him watching the tapestry with furrowed brows. His rag falls to the floor with a wet plop. He mentally curses himself for not being able to hear him enter, and berates himself quite thoroughly.

"Huh?" he feels like slapping himself upside the head. "What were you saying?"

That damn dancer's agility allows Sirius to enter a few number of places quite unnoticed. Right now he is balancing his weight only between the tips of his fingers and his toes. Sneaking around silently is a preternatural ability of his animagus brother that tends to make a fool of him. He thinks it is maybe because everybody expects him to be so much louder, which would be far more in accordance to his personality, like rolling thunder and the breaking of the waves on a cliff-hanger.

"Nothing, just that holding your wand between your teeth is not particularly safe; you might blow an ear off or something..." Sirius says.

"You're sounding suspiciously like Mad-Eye Moody." he flippantly answers as he turns around back to the wall. "And, Sirius, there is no need to creep up on people. What did you want?"

"A healthy dose of caution never hurt anyone." Sirius answers him with eerie seriousness. "You'd be surprised how unpredictable magic can be."

"You are ever closer close to reaching paranoia levels of caution, brother of mine."

"Haven't I always been there?" is Sirius' uncaring remark.

"Why are you here Sirius?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Must you always answer a question with another question?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Charming." Regulus says dryly, his eyes never leaving the tapestry.

"I _am_." Regulus snorts. "I know, I know."

"I could truly name half a dozen people who don't really think that." Regulus mutters.

"I'd truly like to know why you are so intent on fixing this stupid tapestry." Sirius says tilting his head, his feet come forward as he redresses his back, and the thin bones of an ankle can be seen from under the hem of trousers that are too short. "You should be finding a way to remove it."

"If I haven't told you a million times, I've told you none." Regulus says. "This is a piece of the patrimony of this family, an heirloom of our House. People do preserve them because they do mean something, and not just because they like to wallow in the past. You know the saying; we start to die when we start to forget. It is supposed to be a reminder of where we come from; sometimes it makes me wonder where we are going to." he says as he looks at the top of the tree, vanishing in the ever-present semidarkness of the house.

"You don't need an old family tree to tell you that." says Sirius, shaking his head. "I can tell you myself; we come from a particularly shady family of wizards with an obscure past that came out during the Dark Middle Ages, who settled, progressed and thrived, and sometime along the way they decided that they were better than anyone else, so they shunned anyone unworthy, embraced every kind of elitist practice in existence, became prey of paranoia and started sleeping with their wands under their pillows. Now all that's left to us is dying a fool's death."

Sirius too is looking up gloomily as he says this, and he looks incredibly grim. Regulus sighs.

"Don't you ever tired of being so damn pessimistic all the time?"

"Pessimistic, I don't think so." Sirius says petulantly. "Merely objective. I've said that since I was thirteen, if I haven't changed my mind about this by now I don't think it likely I ever will. I'm inconveniently constant like that."

"I'm not bothering to give my opinion. It will be ruthlessly ignored anyway." Regulus dismisses the topic.

"But of course, _Reggie_." Sirius says, from the corner of his mouth. Regulus glowers to the tapestry and heaves a sigh, but doesn't say anything, in the same way one avoids paying attention to a particularly annoying fly. "Before you say anything at all, I'll have you know pet names are generally a signal that you're worth someone's time." points out Sirius rather unhelpfully.

"That makes me feel so good." answers Regulus in mock relief.

"Yes, that reassures me too." says Sirius, sarcasm filling his voice. Regulus glares at him for a few eternally long seconds.

"I really don't like you one bit." he finally declares.

"Ah, Aaaah!" Sirius looks amused. "I hadn't heard that one since you were ten."

"Go bother someone else!" he finally explodes, and he glares with evil intention from behind some wild locks of darkling hair.

::::::::::::::

The Order has nothing to do. Literally. There's been an insanely quiet lull since the attack to Mr. Weasley and there have been no news from the Death Eaters or Voldemort at all. Everything is suspiciously quiet; but Sirius doesn't think that they got scared by their _faux-pas_. Not at all. There hasn't been any news from a single funny death, no kidnappings.

In the meantime he gets the feeling he usually gets when something is about to go very wrong. He feels the hairs in the back of his neck standing permanently on end; and the prickling on the skin on his back in normal circumstances would be telling him to get the hell out. So he keeps insisting that something is going to happen, and that the Order needs to _do_ something, take the initiative.

Maybe he's been too insistent, for it seems that a few members of the Order are starting to consider ignoring Dumbldeore's exonerating words and officially declaring him a mad paranoid crackpot, an look at him as if he is about to have a seizure. In any case they've already dumped him with the lots of Mad-Eye Moody. Some of them are too uncomfortable in his grim presence to lean one way or the other.

He is anxious all the time, thinking about Harry and worrying himself sick, like the mother hen he isn't; and being perpetually disquieted by the Minister puppet, that bigot against half-breeds, and he'd bet anything that if you scratch she's also got something against half-bloods and muggleborns. He just prays that whenever this whole mess implodes, Harry will be as far away from it as possible.

The Order meetings have reduced in number and frequency, and now are held only once a month. Most times all Dumbledore has to tell them, is to keep their eyes open for Voldemort. The days between meetings seem eternal to the eldest Black. Keeping company with the only other breathing, thinking, talking being in the house, if only to exchange biting comments, turns of phrase and witticisms is a distraction for the mind, if not for the soul; and keeps him from eating himself inside out.

Regulus merely goes by, and he's quite happy that way. He doesn't avoid company, but he's too proud to seek it out; but inactivity can take a toll on anyone, including him.

"...and Yates only ignored him, mind you he can be a bit of a pain when he boasts." Nymphadora chatters away as Regulus dusts the underside of the piano in the music room. "So, in the end it happened that Williamson _was _right after all, and the guy had been slipping illegal beautifying potions from Japan... are you listening to me?"

Regulus is rather fond of Tonks, he simply can't help turning out her obnoxious talk as you do with a radio when you are working just to have some noise. It allows her to talk non-stop although he doesn't listen to a single word from her ranting, but it does make for a decent sensation of company.

"No, most likely I wasn't." he says.

"You'd think you are lonely enough to ignore me when I _am_ here." she says peeved.

"It's not that, just that I got lost by the third senior auror you mentioned." he says as he crouches beside a wooden cabinet by the corner.

The windows are thrown wide open despite the chilly air, and at some point Regulus has taken down the curtains, which by now are more like brown that their original saffron yellow.

A chirping sound seems to attract Tonk's attention and she turns to the window to look at a small robin sweeping down on the window ledge. The small bird chirps again and cocks its head at her. She wrinkles her nose and mimics the pose.

The bird hops once and with mirthful chirping it hops inside onto another cabinet table. The bird flies around the room with unique grace once and with a graceful loop comes to stand up on a dark-wooden cupboard. Again it leaped in the air to take another flight over their heads.

Only to burst in midair like a ridiculously small Quod2. A small amount of feathers swirls down lazily to the floor.

"What the fuck!?" Tonks turns around looking startled and more than a bit shocked, although thankfully she doesn't look too horrified at the gory spattering of bird innards on the floor. Regulus would've had words with her if she did after the gruesome tale of that man with three arms due to an illegal potion she was babbling about five minutes earlier. She sees him tuck his wand back into his sleeve.

"I hate birds. Well, most birds. Owls can tolerate." he says concisely. Her persistent glaring prompts a somewhat stunted answer. "When we were kids Sirius transfigured my things into birds with a sour mood when he had a temper tantrum. Mother always marvelled at his powerful outbursts of magic." he says bitterly as he raises his head to look at her. "I can't even see them, birds I mean. They've got feathers, and beaks, and talons and whatnot... don't tell him though."

Too late though. Sirius strolls into the room and gives a doubtful look to the pile of feathers that had once been the bird, then he raises eyebrow and looks at them.

"What aren't you supposed to tell me?" he gives Tonks a questioning look. She shrugs, apologetically.

"_Boom!_" she says as she illustrates the explosion with her hands.

"Ah." Sirius seems to understand pretty quickly. He sees the defiant eye in the other's eyes.

"Well, next time you want to get rid of a bird, don't blow it up, it's too messy. It leaves too many entrails to clean after." he says nonchalantly. And doesn't say anything else as his brother glares daggers through his skull.

This is new; this is good; no dramatic disagreements have broken out for some weeks. Their talking has resumed the happy pattern of avoiding not only touchy subjects, but not pursuing arguments too far. The newfound equilibrium seems to give rest to the string of uncomfortable moments that sharing of close quarters made almost mandatory for the two siblings.

Regulus likes to contemplate that the dynamics in Grimmauld Place work not around the Order of the Phoenix, but around Sirius. The people that stay around after meetings do that to talk to him, be it for friendship, for pity, or sometimes seeking counsel on something or other, for Order business. Him and Lupin, when in the microcosms that is the Headquarters, also revolve around their only common bond.

Lupin and Regulus barely ever talk to each other; they might as well live in separate dimensions. They say good morning and nod to each other in the hallways, and say civilly_ 'pass the butter' _over breakfast. But if you count the kind of speaking that implies communication, then they don't. The only communication effort they share is through Sirius. They both talk to him, as much as one can to him nowadays; they humour him, and spend a good amount of time trying not to be offended by some unflattering observation.

Regulus feels an odd sort of respect for Lupin. After all this time, it is not anything he does as a werewolf, or even as a member of the Order of the Phoenix; but in the way he deals with Sirius that makes him stand out in hi eyes. He's known Sirius for twenty-five years. He's seen him at his worst, when his best sends most people running screaming to the nearest long-distance floo station. He can predict quite accurately most of Sirius' moods, which his own mother never could. He can successfully sooth his temper to a degree, and ride out his darkest moods with unsuspected grace and dignity. He can take whatever shit Sirius shouts at him, but gives as good as he gets, Regulus has discovered that Lupin has a backbone after all. He just chooses not to be confrontational; which doesn't make them all that different.

Remus has also come to respect the youngest of the Blacks. He divines that there's something more underlying their relationship than misunderstanding. But he can see that Regulus understands Sirius more deeply than their previous history would suggest. He also has noticed that their approaches can be sometimes very similar. Maybe that's why he's been the silent sort of friends with Sirius; why sometimes James had to intervene, because he remembered him of Regulus too much. Perhaps. Someone of whom, if he's to go by instinct, he'd once been as fiercely protective of as he'd been of him. He finds it strangely comforting that two such cold individuals can nurse back to health a relationship that has been wounded to death for more than twenty-five years.

The few nights that Lupin is at Grimmauld place, the evenings are a livelier affair. Sirius celebrates the company sacking his father's cellar. Today, Thursday is such an evening. Sirius stands by the counter in the kitchen as is his habit, nursing a glass of wine. Lupin is sitting at the long table, in front of Sirius. Regulus, happy of an opportunity to soak his sorrows in alcohol with some company, is sprawled on a chair with his feet propped on the table on Sirius' left, closer to the fireplace, and is content to remain mostly silent.

"I'm tired of being stuck here." says Sirius, while staring into the flames in the fireplace. The orange glow of the flickering fire in the darkened kitchen plays shadows over sharp cheekbones and disturbingly clear eyes, half of his face is in shadows, but the visible parts of it show the beginnings of a scowl. The severe high collar of his robes has come undone to reveal a peak of a white shirt underneath, and the half-light makes him look unusually dangerous.

"This is really boring." he says. And he flicks the discarded cork into the fire with a flicker of his wrist.

"Uh-oh, a bored Sirius never bode well." says Remus amused. Regulus sniggers into his glass. Remus tilts his head at Sirius fixed stare and dares him to deny the facts. Finally Sirius heaves a sigh.

"Only if I could go out of here for an afternoon… just one afternoon." Sirius sounds almost despondent.

"And where would you go? You can't go anywhere where a wizard might see you." he says reasonably. Remus always does things reasonably, except when they concern his personal life (read love-life), of course.

"I could go to some muggle bar, find myself a muggle girl who doesn't care much for the news, then I'd come back. Maybe that's all I need!" he says, wisps of irritation creeping into his voice. Remus snorts and chuckles, while Regulus on the other side stares more fixedly into his drink, seeming to empathize with Sirius' problem.

"It is rude to laugh about other people's problems, Remus; especially if you don't have that problem." Sirius tells him.

"Now there Sirius, I'm a middle-aged, poor werewolf with a penchant for receiving visits by half the auror force and no steady job nor quarters currently living with his ex-convict best friend." he says, but he is smiling. "What makes you think we don't share that problem?"

"Somewhat, out of deep knowledge of your quirks and habits... I wouldn't say any of this is a problem for you." Sirius says, deeply enjoying seeing his long-time friend blush.

"Sirius, although you are not completely wrong, I'd have you know..."

"Hi gentlemen!" a chirpy voice with a sing-gong announces coming down from the stairs, accompanied by a mop of fuchsia hair and a big smile. She takes a chair and it scraps all the way out under the table.

"How long have you been there?" asks Remus, trying to assess how much of the conversation she might have overheard.

"What I'd like to know is how come you have managed to arrive to the kitchen without awakening the old hag?" Sirius asks immediately after. Tonks grins from ear to ear and plops down on the table some carton with chicken with curry.

"I've been lucky this time." she sits on the counter next to Sirius. Then she signals the cold turkey. "I thought you might want some, seeing as you were supposed to be alone. No? Oh right, well I haven't eaten yet. By the way, what were you talking about to make Remus flush so?"

"He wasn't red before." says Sirius flippantly. "He flushed when you entered. You know his mind is strange, he doesn't mind talking about some things, as long as no-one overhears them."

Nymphadora shoots Sirius a reproachful look and a mischievous glance at the rest of the room.

"We were talking about Sirius' marked lack of sex-life." Regulus interrupts their building bickering.

"No, we were talking about Remus' considerably healthier lifestyle." says Sirius, causing Lupin to go even redder by the ears and glance apologetically to Nymphadora for offending her sensibilities. Not that she was offended in any way.

"It is not difficult to make it healthier than yours. I hadn't specified any amount of anything, by the way" answers the man with sandy-brown hair, opting to follow the directive that says that the best defence is a good offence. Dora laughs around a mouthful of curry chicken.

"I didn't take you for one who'd go for crazy nights and one-night stands." she says cheekily at him, shooting him an otherwise charming smile.

"You'd be surprised…" says Sirius lounging backwards with a lazy gesture, but apparently willing to forget his sulky mood for while. "It's always the quiet ones."

"And still you've never married?" asks Tonks curiously.

"Whenever the two things had anything to do?" he answers cheerfully.

"No girlfriends then?" she amends.

"Who says I didn't?" asks Lupin.

"I do." says Sirius knowingly. "It wouldn't hurt to answer though."

"I could say that's because I've been consistently avoiding any woman that wants more than a one-night stand." he answered looking wryly into the depths of his wine glass. "But I'd be lying; you see... most women become uninterested in anything else once the werewolf thing comes up."

"So instead you've been taking profit of the werewolf groupies." Sirius surmises looking at him as if he's just discovered a new side of his old friend, which he hasn't of course.

"Why's that?" asks Tonks.

"Maybe he's afraid of commitment." answers Sirius, only for Lupin to throw him another reproachful look. "Or that he's a werewolf with a keen sense for the dramatic."

"Think whatever you want." says Remus with a shrug. "But I generally avoid notifying people of the werewolf side of myself, only that by now the scars give me away, really..."

She looks at him a few seconds too long, and feels moved by the resigned sadness she sees, but no bitterness.

"Oh, come on, they're not that bad, they just make you interesting, like the gray hairs..." she trails off seeing Sirius' upturned eyebrow, and shrugs at the silvery eye that is staring fixedly at her as if he just saw her for the first time from the shadowy part of his face. She shakes her head and laughs, and then turns to Regulus' silent figure further away.

"And what about you Regulus?" asks Tonks turning to the younger man. Sirius burst with a bark-like laugh, at the sight of Regulus' startled face in face of the question.

"This one? He's quite the prude." Regulus glares at him and answers with more than a bit annoyance.

"Am not." he says emphatically. "Awkward teenage years are long gone, pity you haven't noticed." Sirius skilfully ignores the gibe.

"Forgive me for surmising from out-dated data. But still there's been no incoming data not to believe anything I've said." he says, enjoying seeing the increasing rate of Regulus' discomfiture. "And for instance, you're blushing."

"To my eyes he's as pale as always." says Remus, and his comment is also dutifully ignored as these kind of comments are meant to.

"You shouldn't be calling people a liar." Regulus says coolly. "It is very hypocritical. And if you must know, your surmising is very wrong."

"As far as I know back at Hogwarts you never had anyone." says Sirius with a smirk. "And I mean it when I say your first and only love was Snowy.

"Who's Snowy?" asks Tonks.

"The cat." tells her Sirius.

"It was only a pet, a childhood pet, that's all."

"Was it cute?" asks Tonks, eyes dancing merrily. Sirius makes scoffing sound.

"It was a _cat_." answers Regulus poignantly.

"Who did you date?" Sirius asks making a good impression of being uncaring, were it not for the fact that all of the present could see he was curious.

"At Hogwarts?"

"I highly doubt that I'll know any of your more recent acquaintances." Sirius says acidly.

"Why should I tell you? So you can later blackmail me with the knowledge? No way."

"Come on! Who was it?" asks Nymphadora, who being naturally curious, or nosy depending on who you asked, was by now piqued.

"She was older than I." Sirius chuckled.

"Really. It can't be can it?" he muses. "Wouldn't this have anything to do with Selwyn getting so very mad at you?" Regulus squirms on his seat. "It does!"

"No, she got pissed because I told her to fuck off." he explains curtly.

"You did! You did have something with Selwyn!" says Sirius looking as if he had just been told Christmas came early.

"And what if I did?" Regulus asks defiantly, and a bit irritated by the incredulity in all this matter.

"You did." says Sirius again, and grimaces, and Regulus rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I did." he repeats very slowly.

"Sirius now, be fair, I know that she wasn't precisely nice, but she was… what's the word? ...well-endowed?" says Remus trying to contain the mirth. Tonks laughs freely and the bubbling sound fills the kitchen. "Besides, this thing of going after the older girls is something genetic?"

Nymphadora snorts on her wine at the implication and looks at Sirius, now truly incredulous.

"They used to find him cute." Remus tells her.

"It was impossible that they considered me cute, I was two head span taller than most of them." says Sirius defensively.

"Weren't you who used to say that you only kissed girls who didn't need a stool to reach your face?" asks Remus pleasantly. Sirius shrugs and makes a non-committal sound.

"She found _little-ickle_ Reggie cute." says the older brother, making a horrible baby voice.

"She didn't, I was also a head taller than her. Well, one and a half heads taller." explains Regulus. The other two men break into chocked laughter, and Regulus finally gives in and breaks into chuckles himself.

"I don't get what's so funny." complains Tonks.

"Selwyn was a Slytherin tart from my year, which was very, very, very _opininated_." explains Sirius off-handily.

"But, who, on the other side, was really attractive, if not a pretty face." completes Remus, Tonks chuckles and shakes her head at them. "Of course that she never gave us the time of the day."

"We didn't have the best reputation amongst the Slytherin students." Sirius says wryly, and gesturing towards his brother: "But she dumped him anyway."

"Are you crazy? I am not that much of a masochist. Trying a long-term anything with her was a life sentence. Far too aggressive for my taste."

Remus frowns.

"Far more details than I needed to know." he tells them.

"Then, I was right, you're still a virgin." says Sirius and Regulus is too busy looking affronted so he's forgotten to look irritated.

"As much as he is your younger brother," Lupin says. "He's thirty-five, it's impossible he hasn't even tried." Sirius shrugs.

"You'd be surprised. There are people for everything." he says.

"Who said anything that'd make you think that?" Regulus says evasively.

"You should be more specific." says Tonks. "It'd put an end to this conversation, as amusing as it is."

"No way I'm giving him the means to blurt something embarrassing the worst moment possible. I know better."

"So much mystery is making it look like you're bluffing." Sirius tells him whilst looking at him, the glee dancing wildly in the silvery pools of his eyes.

"The fact that you've been in an enforced celibacy for fourteen years doesn't mean that the rest of us have." rebukes Regulus. Remus sniggers and looks at his friend who just seems amused but promises retaliation later.

"Who says I have gone without for fourteen years?" Sirius says mysteriously.

"With whom then?" asks Remus, catching the opportunity as it comes. "With McGonagall?"

Regulus snorts into his drink and chokes on it at the same time with an uncontrollable fit of drunken giggles.

"Now that you say it." Tonks joins in "she did look happier last meeting."

Sirius looks outraged, but holds onto a shroud of cool aloofness while the rest are rolling on the floor in laughter.

"Do I have to remind you that I spent a few months in the Caribbean, in which I didn't look too bad?" explains Sirius. "There are also lots of thin people there. But I didn't say anything actually happened, just said it was not as necessary as you made it sound."

"Okay, okay, keep your mystery." laughs Tonks.

"Well, and what about you Dora?" asks Regulus, turning around to face her properly. "You've made us confess our woes and heard them all. I'm only asking for a fair exchange."

She laughs and sloshes more wine into her glass.

"My private life is no secret." she answers. "I haven't had a decent boyfriend in years."

"How come?" asks Remus, clearly puzzled. "You're young, and pretty and funny... it is hard to believe." Sirius looks at him and raises an eyebrow, at the particular way the compliment has been delivered. She smiles widely.

"I guess I'm unlucky." she says, shrugging. "You could say that the men I like don't look at me, guess I look to wild and clumsy."

"You are clumsy."

"And the ones who look..." she smiles ironically. "They're the kind of _Do you think you could have straight brown hair?_ or _Could you change your eye colour?_, or even worse _Do you think you could make your tits bigger?_. They think just because I'm a metamorphomagus I'm girlfriend on demand."

"We men can be quite the arseholes, can't we?" says Sirius sounding far more understanding that one would give him credit for.

"I'm trying to develop a hex that causes that a pair of boobs to grow at the one standing at the business end of my wand, so the next one who asks me will grow a good pair, of the wrong kind." she says Dora. "For the moment I have one that makes their balls grow non-stop."

Lupin is totally red in the face, clearly having a difficult time trying not to laugh, and clearly finding it very difficult not to.

"We are such a gang of losers." Regulus says out loud.

"Let's hope that this damned madness of Voldemort ends soon or we'll fade into the background irrevocably." Sirius says.

"Aye." Someone else says feebly.

"It is Order trademark, you know it Sirius." softly reminds him Lupin.

"Damn, then it is better than the other option, isn't it." He answers glumly. "I don't feel like packing yet."

* * *

1 You may note that the dates of the Black ancestors mentioned in the tapestry can't be those J. gave us in her Black Family Tree. I must say that for the purpose of coherence in my own alternate universe: I don't want inopportune grandparents alive when they shouldn't, etc. So I made the older generations older for clarity purposes for myself. I considered that as wizards age slower the normal, tradition would be for them to marry not just barely out of Hogwarts (with a few exceptions of course), even if then the family has a propensity towards early death.

2 The Quod is the exploding ball used in the American variant of Quidditch invented by Abraham Peasegood; which has eleven players per side and only one ball, which is the Quod.


	20. Chapter 19: Experience Teaches Us All

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen – Experience Teaches Us All**

A door creaks open, and a beam of tremulous light creeps into the dark room. Soon after, the gas lamps lined up the walls of the vast tall room light up one after the other bringing back to life the old armoury. It is still a long rectangular room no matter what the passage of time might do to it. The tall ceiling has a charm that makes it look as if the natural light from the street filters through a series of ornate skylights. The room wide and long has a faded blue duelling carpet running right through the middle of it. To the side walls, there is a wooden scaffold raised over a meter from the floor accessed by several wooden steps that traces its complete length. The wood was showing the beginnings of woodworm activity, and the dust is thick over the racks of ancient weapons. Particles of dust swim in the air, stirring in lazy circles. Cobwebs have grown over the vast variety of swords of all kind that has been accumulated over centuries: heavy longswords, elegant rapiers, sinuous sabres and sturdy shortswords. A great flamberge hangs over the eastern wall presiding the room with its heavy waving contour, and heavy tapestries bears credit to the feats of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.

Sirius picks at the faded carpet with his foot and it liberates a cloud of dust that makes them both sneeze and cough their lungs out.

"I remembered this room more…" says Regulus "...more spectacular."

"Because it was?" is Sirius' answer. "One guess is that it wasn't taking chances to look like a dragon den."

"Must be that." he mutters. "Do we really have to do this?" says motioning to the swords. "It's not like we have to sleep in here or anything."

"Fair point." Sirius says utterly serious. "But I rather not have parts of this house more like a Den than a liveable building. The dust then migrates and infects the rest of the house. Besides,_ you do have nothing better to do_."

The Black Crest has been engraved under the peculiar sword on the wall, and in the crystal panelled cabinets spread amongst the big racks and suits of armour bearing tall spears a myriad of knives and daggers are showed off along with some other exotic rarities like the long smoothly curved Japanese sword encased in an embroidered silken sheath, and a collection of goblin-made daggers that most antiques collectors would pay a fortune for.

"We'll need something to get the rust off of these." says Sirius after inspecting with his forefinger the edge and blade of a sword he's pulled out of a rack.

Regulus contemplates glumly the work ahead and muses that working in a room full of potentially sharp blades is not the best place for a sufferer of blood weakness to work in. They do tend to slip and fall in the less fortunate way, fingers get nicked and scandalous bleeding ensues. Regulus mentally tries to predict how long it will take for Sirius to get fed up of patching him up, because this kind of wounds... you just can't heal them yourself, and sends him somewhere else. Any sane person would have already banned him off the room.

But they are Blacks, and they are not sane.

And it is never more patent than when Sunday morning, Sirius swings his arm widely, making a blunted practice rapier _swoosh_, cutting the air nicely. The light reflected in the blade holds attention magnificently.

Sirius looks at him like he's evaluating him, with that particularly haughty look his face gets when his eye brows rise slightly, his lips press into a thin slanted slash and he looks at him through half-lidded eyes, like he's so damn much better than you.

"You think you still know how to use one?" he finally says.

Now Regulus doesn't quite know if he ought to feel affronted. The pureblood tradition behind duelling is great, something well bred lads learn from the moment they can walk. It is not uncommon then that pureblood wizards can beat easily a vast majority of half-bloods and muggle-borns without breaking a sweat. You should do most of the Order of the Phoenix an honourable exception. Could you imagine for a father the shame of having a son who can't even defend himself? Regulus is not delusional though, and knows that he was never the best at duelling. His proficiency lay in other fields. But he was not half bad either.

Sirius and he learnt first to fight with swords though. It had been Orion Black's belief, well not really his because he didn't have that much inventive but the belief of many generations of Black forefathers, that in order to master the technique behind duelling with wands one had to master the art of duelling with swords first. It was supposed to make one quick on his feet, and you learnt to instinctively react bodily before the spell-casting was shoved into the mixture.

Sirius lets the blade swing into his reach only a little away from his chest, and Regulus only presses two fingertips at the very tip of the blade making it curve under the combined strength of Sirius' grasp and his fingers and releases it with an ominous twang.

"Whatever." he says.

The results are generally quite good, but you also have to consider natural talent. Tradition can give fruitful results when faced with mediocre conceited wizards like Lucius Malfoy, but thankfully it never did much for someone like Goyle. For someone trained by Orion Black, the brutal fight for survival of duelling was almost instinctual; be it words, wands or swords.

Sirius only swings the sword back in place and Regulus is starting to believe Sirius is rather too keen on baiting him.

"Do you?" he insists.

Sirius was always rather too good at this. And Regulus ponders how he can possibly think that after all he's been through... he'll have a chance of winning. Even against him who abandoned the magical world for almost twenty years. He still looks frail, damn it. Maybe Sirius deserves to be put into place for once because he can't always be the best.

So he takes the bait.

He leaves the dagger he has with him and takes that other practice sword out of the rack and strides back some steps before turning around to face Sirius.

He lashes out without warning a quick diagonal thrust downwards that Sirius parries and sidesteps easily despite his apparent initial lack of preparation. That could be expected though, and he answers with a succession of blows that despite being successfully blocked make Sirius retreat backwards while dancing from one foot to the other.

He really does not know if to be surprised that he managed to force him to it, or that his sickly brother didn't stumble ungraciously as someone so nearly emaciated barley months ago should. Sirius is breathing hard though, after managing to disengage their weapons. He rights himself though and looks at him again with a look that he can't fathom.

Their blades connect and rattle again. And blows come one way and the other. He doesn't quite understand why Sirius hasn't gone down yet, but the longer this goes on the more blows _he_ has to parry. And soon his heaving breath joins in, and Sirius isn't the only one whose breathing is too loud.

And soon they are enthralled in the deadly dance of their swords, the ring of steel in the air. And instead of slowing down they pick up pace. Regulus' blood is pumping in his ears, too loud, he's short of breath and he can't hear anything. He's just aware that he moves, and that he's thinking too much, and he shouldn't be thinking at all while his body does the work for him. He focuses on Sirius, wild mane on the proverbial wind and eyes ablaze seems to gain vitality by the minute. Until...

Regulus makes a wild lunge left and the flat of Sirius' blade slaps his hand and he releases the weapon with a loud clang.

He tries to pick up his breath, and manages to expel a chocked chuckle. Shame on him for forgetting what the rush of confrontation does to people like Sirius. Oddly enough, and even if he's lost... to someone who's underweight, undernourished, has suffered from muscle loss and a life sentence in Azkaban, he feels more alive now than before.

He understands the attractive of duelling, the excitement and the rapid thinking. The not thinking. But he is not good enough for Sirius and should have thought better. Apparently survival in the wild did not leave someone in quite that bad physical shape. He should've known.

Trust Sirius to do the impossible. Thrust his brother to achieve the unthinkable.

Sirius is still on his feet and is beginning to look composed. He should slap himself for falling for the damn trap that has everyone so damn fooled, for committing the same damn mistake everyone seems to be making. He shouldn't have underestimated Sirius. He isn't a damn broken doll. And Dumbledore should be thinking about giving him something to do if he's restless enough to fight him off with that much energy.

"Should've known this was only another chance to remind me how much better than me you still are." he grounds out.

"Not really." Sirius rasps out. _Not so composed then_. "It was a situation assessment."

And Regulus knows Sirius started at a comfortably slow pace and only checked how far up he had to go.

"Should've known you were going to win." he insists, shaking his head. And he pushes himself up and even allows Sirius to help him.

"You'll never get better with that attitude."

Regulus also knows that they'll be repeating this, and wands will often be involved. And he also knows that it is also a good idea, as they're probably a bit rusty, so they'd better not look like a couple of old fools by the time Dumbledore agrees to let them set foot out of the house. And he also knows that he doesn't mind, as it has just made him feel more alive than anything going on since coming back to England.

It does happen as predicted. Sirius toys with him now, and wins more than he loses. The finesse is back, as well as all the indomitable unpredictable strength that drove Death Eaters to distraction in his better days. Feeling the magic flowing through him with the wild abandon and force of a wizarding duel, it's life in the edge and he loves it, because he too is a bit mad.

He marvels every day, at the same time he sends wordless thanks to the Three above for not having stripped them of what ability they had. At least that they can still keep. He's heard of wizards that forget their spell-casting after too long a stay among muggles. It is still a wonder how little they have forgotten, how easily they relearn routines they learnt as children, deeply ingrained into them until they are _this_. A gift from their forefathers that even Sirius can accept.

::::::::::::::

Sirius has a volatile energy that lights him out inside out, and makes him shine fiercely through the light in his eyes. He's playing cat and the mouse, completely ignoring a wide opening for him to quickly finish off in search of looking for a more interesting outcome. Movement flows in and out, feet move like on a dance floor, only more dangerously.

A sudden rustle makes him loose focus and Regulus doesn't manage to step back quickly enough and stumbles rather ungracefully and only dodges an unidentified flying curse by sheer luck. The ensuing gasp makes him loose focus enough that Sirius hits him squarely in the chest so he finds himself dry-heaving on the floor.

Tonks comes over rather alarmed, but seeing that Sirius quickly casts the counter-spell seems to give her the idea that they weren't engaged in one of their arguments. She shakes her head and peruses the room with quick auror eyes.

"Are you sure all of these are legal?" she asks. "Don't answer, it doesn't matter." She is there, hands on her hips and her lovely little nose scrunched up. "You're good." she says. "Didn't know you went into auror training."

"That's because we didn't." Sirius tells her.

"I keep forgetting," she clucks her tongue. "There aren't many purebloods that learn to do that outside the academy anymore, you know."

"We're too old." Regulus tells her, and she laughs.

"No you aren't. In fact you're very good; I thought you might've gone rusty but…" she smiles brightly, the way it makes everyone forget how very untactful she is. "I asked Kingsley, you know. He wouldn't tell me in the beginning."

"You know, the Death Eaters wouldn't be too great a menace if they hadn't sprouted from the Old School you know." Regulus tells her.

"Yep, and it's a shame, because this thing is such a big problem." she huffs. "One should be able to learn to defend himself, but no-one should be allowed to learn how to efficiently harm others… it is a cycle that has no end does it?"

"I'm afraid no." Sirius says. "Don't breath a word of this to Molly." he pleads.

"Why? It's not bad that you practice, even if you're in the reserve." she says.

"Because she'll accuse us of being damn reckless."

"And Mad-eye would kill you coz'" says Dora to Regulus. "Constant vigilance! You should've known I was coming and keep tabs on me without doing anything unless I did something."

Regulus scowls at her prep talk.

"I'd like to know how well you'd do." he says.

"I'm an auror!" she says.

"Yes." answers Sirius.

"Although I might fall for that too." she concedes.

"He's a bully." says Regulus as he stood. "He wouldn't let you win either."

"He wouldn't have to, I'd win by my own merits." she protests.

"Oh, enough bragging and complaining. I've heard all this a thousand times!" Sirius says tiding up, and leaving. "Meeting's up soon."

"He's a stiff git." says the younger Black.

"Of all the things I've been called, it's never been that." Sirius shouts back. "Wasn't that what they called _you_?"

"Yes, but that's off the point. I can call you a cold insensitive bastard, though if you prefer."

"You see, I am more acquainted with this one," he says "and the thousand variations of it that have been thrown to me since Hogwarts."

"With good reason, I guess?" Regulus prods.

"Where you saying something? I can't hear you."

"That you are a big pain in the ass!"

"Excuse me?! Boys!" She claps, and both snap their heads around to look at her. "Back on track. I want to know how the hell you know to do _that_, and why on earth would purebloods keep so many swords."

She says perusing the room.

"_That_ is no big deal." says Sirius nonchalantly. "We how to duel before we entered Hogwarts. Of the many things an old family takes pride in, the Blacks take pride in being strong and from their duelling skills. So it was unthinkable one of as would be rubbish at it..."

"And we learnt to duel with swords first." Regulus says.

"Why? These are dangerous." She says kicking a rapier nearby that rolls over with a loud clang, and she looks guiltily over at them.

"Apparently, it is essential to the formation of future efficient duellers, that won't look like a bull changing over and spouting spells." says Regulus. "They are no more dangerous than the uncontrolled magic of a five-year-old left to duel with a wand. Even the purebloods are not crazy enough for that."

"Eh, yeah."

"It is supposed to teach you your footwork and the basics of thrusting and parrying; it is not much different from the basic sequence of casting a stunning spell and shielding charm immediately after." Sirius explains. "That way you move gracefully and don't look like a clumsy sod..."

She squeaks at the jab and her hair turns bright orange. Had she had something in hand she'd thrown it at him.

"Anyway, that's the base for learning your moves right." he continues. "It is easier to concentrate on the footwork if you don't have to concentrate also on the spell-work."

"Well." says Tonks. "That's new. Never heard nothing like it. Why don't they start like this at the Auror Academy then?"

"Because they don't know hilt from tip if it kills them. Now, really because the Ministry always does everything as messily as possible, god forbid that their personnel was able and efficient for once. And it takes time. Probably longer than they have."

"Hello, Ministry official here!" she calls out.

"You don't count. Mad-Eye trained you." he tells her. "He knows his stuff."

"They have that absurd notion that everything old is not worth knowing because is not fanciful anymore." Regulus says. "Bollocks. Most teaching methods that work are old."

"Yeah I guess." she muses. "Maybe we aurors do rely too heavily on our spell-work. Specially seniors." she giggles. "They're too fat."

The clanging of the bell rips Sirius from the conversation, swearing under his breath all the time he goes to answer the door as the yelling escalates.

"Anyways, why so surprised? It is reasonable we know our hexes, we're in the Order." Regulus says to Tonks.

"How should I know? You're not on the field." she defends herself. "You won't tell me that Dedalus Diggle is so very good."

Regulus snorts.

"We survived the war." he shakes his head. "And we _were_ on the field. If I remember correctly Sirius used to be amongst the ones that went with Moody."

Tonks whistles.

"Good, right." she says. "That _is_ good credentials."

"And I was trained under the careful look of your aunt Bellatrix." he grimaces. "And I made it out alive so..."

"Yuck." she says. "She's still a myth, down in the auror department you know; she's like the hydra, or... is there any worse mythological creature?"

"Sirius didn't have the right temperament to be an auror, you know. He'd never been accepted." Regulus says. "He was good. Was a nuisance to the Dark Lord's people."

"I only knew he was good with wards." she shrugs. "Mom told me once he set the wards around our house back then. They still work."

I fact, Sirius hadn't even tried to apply for admittance into the Auror training program; in that time of growing suspicion and paranoia the force was ill-disposed towards the surname Black; especially while Barty Crouch was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Under the old Mr Potter, it might've happened, but his heart condition made him retire early and Sirius never had a chance.

He'd done his best to swallow his own frustration over the situation and had looked for alternative options. In case they'd been willing to admit him, he wouldn't have passed the psychological evaluation; for the same reason that had rendered him the most vulnerable to Peter's manipulation. Sirius was handsome, and Sirius was intelligent, and Sirius had a sharp tongue and a talent for making his opinions heard, plus a reputation for frivolity. And that was everything people saw, a born winner with no consideration for anyone other than himself. To his detriment, because those things mentioned above indeed made him ideal Ministry material, Sirius was also aloof, had a vicious temper, difficulty making friends, and no talent whatsoever for being part of a group. James Potter had been the memorable exception in the friends department and he'd brought along Remus and Peter, he'd also kept him in the group at various tense points over the years because while Sirius' loyalty was great but so was his pride. Sirius didn't (and doesn't) have normal conversations, he verbally spars with people, no matter their rank or position in life. He has no respect for authority whatsoever, except that exerted by people he considered morally superior, like Dumbledore or Mr Potter, and even then it was always because experience had taught him that their reasoning could be better than his. He was the kind of person who felt that the words mandatory and optional were interchangeable. He knew no boundaries to make his point come across, and was not the kind to willingly spare someone's pride, not even that of a prospective boss. So he would have been the thorn in everyone's side and provably thrown out by the time his first year was ended.

So instead he'd studied for Wizarding Law and passed the WELTs (Wizarding Exhausting Law Tests) and poured all his passion into working for the Order instead, giving legal cover-up for the members caught up in difficult situations amongst other things.

Because he was an unregistered Animagus, and because his alternate form was a common enough animal to pass unnoticed, Sirius mostly specialized in infiltration operations. Not that the Order knew about it with the exception of his friends. No one other than them knew how he did it. He was handy with wards too. He had managed to intercept quite a few secrets and had blown up a number of Death Eater plans. Sirius had developed a bit of a reputation amongst their enemies, and the superstition run about that no sensitive information should be passed and no secret meeting should be undertaken without first determining precisely where the elder Black son was. He was a bit like smoke, with ears in the unlikeliest places yet almost impossible to accurately track himself. It helped that he spent that time travelling back and forth from the continent with Dorcas, where on top of that they impeded their efforts to expand outside the country.

It had been that state of not knowing on everybody else's part, even the Order that made him the blank of suspicion. When the war started, Sirius became sober, careful and a touch suspicious of everyone. They saw that then Sirius became moody, distant, and fascinatingly efficient. Also Sirius was too observant for his own good, and it roused the impression that one needed to be careful around him. Everyone had been so busy guarding his own secrets that they had never considered that anyone else was guarding their own; except in the end, but they got it all wrong. It never occurred to anyone in the Order of the Phoneix that his secret had anything to do with his little brother, Regulus.

::::::::::::::

Regulus is sitting on an armchair in his room, reading a book that he's grabbed in an act of desperate boredom. He tries to focus on the letters, but with the precarious illumination there they all seem blurry and foggy. Reading was a good idea as he doesn't really fancy cleaning today, and as Sirius hasn't even reminded him to. He isn't going to be the one to spoil the fun. But it requires a great amount of effort; he only does it because he has _nothing_ to do. He's been losing sight steadily for a couple of years, which is early for one to become short-sighted; and it's been just his luck that from everything that he could've forgotten before coming back to Britain, he'd forgotten his glasses. There are family precedents; both, his father and his uncle were short-sighted, and Uncle Alphard was since much earlier age, just like him.

He returns his gaze to the book. The lines seem to make an awkward dance rain dance. He sifts and the book, trying to adjust the distance. He moves it farther away from him, until the letter imprinted on the paper stills into a coherent unity. A bit pathetic really.

He brings the book down with a sigh, then rises from his couch and heads outside in pursue of a pair of glasses. Any pair of glasses. He heads towards the attic, up from a discreet door in the fourth floor, where most of the belongings of the previous inhabitants of Grimmauld place have been stuffed into.

He rummages through the boxes in an attempt to find either his uncle's or his father's glasses, because he is definitely not wearing a monocle. Uncle Alphard's spare glasses should be ideal. That is exactly what he finds when he opens a wooden marquetry box lying around with the old lacquered pipe inside. He puts them on, and gets them off quickly. He taps them with his wand for them to adjust to _him_. Thank god magical glasses are made to adapt to one's degenerating eyesight by themselves. He adjusts them on his nose-bridge and blinks owlishly. But when he reads, now, it is far better.

There's a moment later when he comes down and the front door opens and Tonks' unmistakable voice, who's accompanied by Lupin, rises in the hallway. Screaming and howling rise too from Walburga's portrait and Regulus finally closes his book with a thud. He looks at his wristwatch, the only muggle commodity he still preserves; it is seven o'clock in the evening. It's time for dinner anyway.

The kitchen smells... wrong. But that is to be expected when one is left with Sirius to cook, and nobody has been here lately to do that for them.

"Wotcher! What's this Sirius?" asks Tonks motioning to the food. "Dead dog?"

"Aren't we witty." Sirius grumbles, but pushes the pot away from him.

The attempts at cooking coming from Sirius, are better left untested, this one looks more like mud than a dead dog, really. It is not appealing in the slightest. The sweet smelling cartons of Chinese instead are a powerful call for a grumbling stomach.

"Hey, look who just appeared." Regulus cuffs his brother at the same time he manages to pick up a fork for himself and a carton while pulling out a chair and sitting down. He's getting better at doing ten things at a time.

"I didn't know you wore glasses." says Dora whit her usual cheerful innocence.

He quickly takes them off and pushes them into one of the pockets of the burungdy tunic he's wearing today.

"It's eerie." says Sirius leaning back on his chair. "And unfortunate, that you don't look neither like father nor like mother; but uncle instead." he says scrunching his nose, and Regulus knows he's one step away of making a comment about too much inbreeding.

To him, it has always been obvious that in personality traits he resembled his late uncle the most. That being just a little less abrasive than his parents, and having that soft-heartedness when it came to his only sibling pointed that way. The ability to disappear unobtrusively, and give everyone the impression that you agree with them, even if you agree with no-one, appeared to justify that impression. But from there to being his look-alike... Well maybe, he was not that young anymore and the eyewear made it more acute.

"I'd watch it, or so much abrasiveness makes you sound and look more like father every day." he supposes Sirius doesn't realise that pressing his lips just so only makes it much more obvious, and that the haughty glowering is really something he got from their father.

"Don't you have to wear them all the time?" asks Tonks curiously, and he guesses that she's never paid attention to any eyewear that weren't cool sunglasses.

"No, it's just that I have trouble reading." he grumbles. And it is instinctive, but he wouldn't wear them when, say duelling because they tend to break and cause injuries one would be better off without.

"It was about time you did something about it." Regulus shakes his surprise off, and chooses instead to be annoyed at Sirius for knowing well damn everything. "You were starting to do funny things with your eyes."

"Why do you always have to know everything?" he snaps at him. "Is there a bloody reason why are you should be so bloody nosy?"

"I'm not nosy, I just notice things." says Sirius calmly.

He slams the cup down with frustration. And the reason why their drink is being served in a coffe cup when there's an entire set of Venetian glass there, on the display cabinet is something he'll have to ask Sirius. Stuck here twenty four hours under Sirius' scrutinising eye, he is bound to notice things, even if they are stupid and inconsequential, and make you feel monitored by the Staci. But at the same time one can't blame him for his borderline control-freak ways, as they clearly make him feel more in control of his own life, which by his own standards has been appallingly out of control lately.

"Sirius." Lupin says. "You don't just notice things by chance, like you were insinuating. You bloody look for them, you monitor people and psychoanalyze until they feel you're legeremancing them."

Sirius' careless shrug seems to put an end to all discussion.

"There are more people who think this, than they dare tell you." says Regulus smirking.

"That's because they have that absurd notion that I'm going to claw their eyes out and eat them mashed with their intestines for supper." he says.

"Well, yeah." says Tonks. "Everyone, including me, thought for a long time, while looking for you, that you'd be something like that. I think most order members still do before meeting you, and some after too." she says impishly.

Trust Nymphadora Tonks to make an observation so spot on while being so completely tactless and naive.

"Yes, and I would also be seven feet tall and thunders would be coming out of my arse!" he proclaims crossly.

"Well, the last time I checked." says Regulus trying to contain laugher. "You were five inches short of reaching seven feet, and didn't suffer from flatulence problems."

Nymphadora blushes slightly, Merlin knows only why, and Remus seems to relax at the humorous upturn the conversation seems to be taking.

"Except when there's beans in the menu." he says smugly. After having lived with Sirius for more than he cared to count, some over nine years already; he knew even those little details that he'd honestly rather not know."

"Should we talk about chickpeas, Remus?" Sirius asks with the slow devilish smile of his which is slanted and bright like a flash of lightning, it is that quick. In the end just means danger, but this time, as it is amongst friends here, it is probably a tame kind of danger.

"Ouch." he says, and smiles back unreservedly, like when they were young and more carefree than they are now.

"Poor Remus, he was just joking." Tonks coos, and takes the chance to intertwine her arm with his and not let go. "No harm intended, Sirius."

"I shall do penance for that." he returns. "I'll whip myself until my ears bleed."

Nymphadora then comes around and kicks one of the two legs of the chair from under him, so the precarious balance he's into inevitably breaks, and he goes down and lays there looking at the ceiling with a frown and a shake of his head.

"Confession!" he exclaims after a few seconds of sepulchral silence with a hand over his heart. "I'm dead!"

Her momentary worried face lights up again and she snorts very unladylike, while she straightens the two chairs he hit on his way down. Then Sirius slowly sits on the floor.

"Hey! Did you hit your head with that stunt you just pulled?" Regulus asks after he can manage to control his own laughter. It shouldn't be fun really, but he's been saying one day something like this would happen even from before going away to Hogwarts so his mirth is quite uncontrollable.

"Don't worry, I'm fine!" he says.

"I wasn't worried about your head, I was worried about whatever that hit on its way down." he deadpans.

"That's uninterested worry." Sirius says trying hard to look offended. "Although I can't complain I suppose, the damn table is more functional than me in any case."

"Don't go there." Remus warns him.

"Wasn't complaining." he says. "Although you should be particularly grateful, you sod."

His werewolf friend makes a face of polite surprise, that here doesn't fool anyone.

"Yes you should, because in between having Dung smoking like a chimney and Molly fuming like a particularly aggressively potion, I had to lie like a rug to Mad-Eye when he cornered me asking about your punctuality when delivering reports." he says with a smug glint of satisfaction. "And you should too Dora, because you owe me big time, as he hasn't yet realised you never have your guard duty when he thinks you do, courtesy of me of course; so you'd better have done your fill by Friday or else..."

"Are you telling me you successfully circumvented the constant vigilance of the ultimate guru of the philosophy?" Tonks gives a low whistle to show she is impressed. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the one and only auror who'd survived without a partner half of his career (they stopped assigning after realising he spooked them away), and no-one dared to ask Moody about his original partner these days.

"It certainly appears that way, yes." he says.

"Merlin, you're good." she said. "Lucky for me then, and the chance of not being hexed to oblivion..."

"Which is a speciality of yours, I believe?"

"Well, yes." she says, and she fishes a spoon from the top drawer of the grumpy counter, which tries to slam the drawer on her fingers. She gives it a surreptitious kick as she shoves the small spoon inside her yoghurt. "But you can always go crying to Mum. Mothers are like that, they always believe someone its ill-treating their lovely daughters."

"Really." says Regulus form his place close to the fireplace.

"Yep, unless she's the one that's mad at you, dad always tells her to think it over before doing anything rash." she says. "In the end she ends up yelling anyway, so I don't know why he bothers."

"That's because she cares." Remus tells her.

"Do all mothers yell?" she says scrunching up her nose.

"Well... I guess no. My mother was a sweet woman." he returns. "I never heard her yelling at anyone, not at dad, definitely not at me… she was so calm, I dread to think of the magnitude of the thing that would made her mad."

Sirius chuckles and turns to Lupin.

"Sorry Remus, but you are not that perfect." he says Sirius. "Closing yourself in a silenced room to yell your frustration off takes points away from the sanctity bonus, no matter how unobtrusive."

"What did you do to make Lupin shout?" shoots away Regulus.

"You don't want to know." answers Sirius cryptically.

"You make yourself sound as if you were some kind of criminal." says Remus. "Looking back in retrospective it wasn't that bad."

"Familiarity breeds contempt." answers Sirius levelly. "You never tolerated me half the things that you tolerate the rest of the world."

"It usually comes with sharing close quarters." Remus answers him. – It was either that or sounding like your mother."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe." Regulus points out.

"Mother was definitely _not_ a sweet woman." says Sirius. "She wasn't the arguing kind either, mostly because our father applied to the last letter the old rule that says the man always has to have the last word; and that was always _"Yes, darling"_."

Tonk's uncontrolled giggling was like a particularly intoxicating brand of firewhisky and they were all chuckling after a few minutes.

"He's not blowing it out of proportion. Well, a little." Regulus concedes. "I never, ever did I see them quarrelling; mostly because father spent his day immersed in his business deals and let her deal with the rest."

"Contradicting Wallburga Black meant an instant death penalty." adds Sirius. "So no-one tried, much less him. There is no confrontation unless there is two people that wish for one. The man had survival instincts. You look up Slytherin in a book and his face appears right next to the entry. _Those twisted folks, use any means to save their skins."_

"The song doesn't really go about that, does it?" asks Tonks.

"Not really." answers Regulus. "What exactly do you have against Slytherins? Don't answer, dumb question."

"That they wear green?" Sirius answers anyway.

"Well, I'll ignore the comment and keep myself from future comments to the honourable hearts of Gryffindors."

"You know?" blurts out Nymphadora. "I never understood all that house rivalry stuff. Look at us, Hufflepuffs, we live without going and getting into tight spots with everyone."

"That's because you Hufflepuffs are always so kind-hearted." says Remus smiling gently at her. Sirius huffs, though.

"That's an understatement." says Sirius, and avoids a smack form his little cousin. "It's true, Gryffindors will always do what they think its right; Ravenclaws will always do anything for the sake just for the sake of trying; and even Slytherins will do anything to achieve their ends which are mostly egoistical. But Hufflepuffs, will do out of the goodness of their hearts exactly what they have been told to do." Regulus sniggered. "And we are talking about people here not of Hogwarts houses."

"And that's the reason why you weren't placed there." comments Remus.

"The Sorting Hat didn't even consider it." says Sirius proudly.

"Well, the hat thought you'd fit in Gryffindor and placed you there, no big deal." says Dora sniffing. "Doesn't mean there's nothing wrong with it."

"No." Sirius answers, and slaps Regulus' hand with a rolled newspaper when he is about to take a cigarette out. "He considered first placing me in Slytherin."

There are a few uncomfortable seconds of silence. The surprise in Lupin's eyes almost makes him smile in the middle of his great confession; but is really his brother's look of undisguised interest that is priceless.

"You always told me that I was bloody twisted." he says shrugging, and Tonks doesn't know if he's talking to Remus of Regulus. "He said I had enough determination to fit in Slytherin, and I certainly had the wits and cunning, I knew how the place worked, and I was definitely proud enough, I also had the attitude. And furthermore I was a pureblood..."

Their expectant looks finally did it and he broke out into one of his bark-like laughs. They were funny the lot of them, looking at him as if expecting him to say _"joking!"_ in the end.

"Then why didn't it place you there?" asks Tonks, who's confusion has manifested into a tutti-frutti hairstyle with too much yellow.

"Because I told him to stop recycling his own judgements and actually do his bloody job." he answers her.

"Then it placed you in Gryffindor." says Dora. Sirius shakes his head.

"No, then he said I had the brains to be in ravenclaw, but I had not temperament for the Eagle House, I'd be bored and alone forever. Then he said that in the end it took courage to risk a breach of tradition for someone like me, and that I'd need it after placing me where he was going to. And he placed me in Gryffindor."

Lupin chuckles.

"Gryffindor, were dwell the brave at heart!" he says fondly.

"Ugh, too much honour in the air." says Regulus, half joking. "Red never flattered you." He points out at Sirius. "Makes you look chalky."

"The robes weren't red Reg." he returns nonchalantly. "Scarves are, but no one forces you to wear them."

"But if you don't, then you always catch a cold." comments Tonks.

"That's why warming spells exist." says Sirius disdainfully. Nymphadora ignores him.

"Well, I'm a Hufflepuff, and I'm very proud of being one." she says.

"Mean Slytherins would say it means you have aptitudes for nothing." drawls Regulus, and then raises his hands conciliatorily. "Which surely can't be true if you are an auror."

"I wouldn't laugh if I were you." says Sirius. "I'd bet my hand right that it considered you for Hufflepuff."

"That's no bet worth a damn. You're left-handed." he says. "And no, not for that one."

Then he immediately shuts his mouth, his lips turning into a thin line, because despite the good mood and sharing of long-buried secrets he wasn't planning on spilling _his_. But it had the clear give-away that he had talked more than he wanted to.

"Which one did consider you for?" asks Sirius carelessly. "For Ravenclaw?"

Regulus reluctantly shakes his head, and thinks he maybe should untangle this building misunderstanding before it is turned into a mockery.

"Whoa!" And it is Lupin that is making fun of him, and it is too late. "I think we understood it wrong. I'm sure he meant the hat considered sending him to another school."

"No, he considered sending him back home." says Sirius, refusing to acknowledge what his brother is suggesting. "He was the first to see the squib in you."

"No!" exclaims Regulus, quite offended. "He considered me for Gryffindor. Now, I've already said it. It is bad... but not that bad, Merlin, hmff... a squib."

"Well, that was unexpected." says Remus.

"Not exactly unexpected." points Tonks, rather matter-of-factly. "They're brothers after all."

"He only considered it because it is getting old, and has a tendency to compare you to living relatives." says Regulus glowering at Sirius. "He spent five minutes listing all the Gryffindor qualities, when I couldn't care less."

"Now that I think about it, you took quite a long time getting sorted." says Sirius. "I always thought that it was because you had your thoughts really scattered and it took his time in finding them all."

Regulus glares at him, and is about to respond tartly to this constant demeaning reference to his mental abilities.

"You're one to talk." says Remus instead, trying to contain laughter. "Yours took ten minutes."

"Shush." says Sirius. "Which side are you on?"

"And that only proves that you have a double personality disorder." exclaims cheerfully Nymphadora, delighted she got to have a word in edgeways in this mad bantering. "Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

"Dr. who?" asks Sirius.

"No, not Dr. Who." says Dora.

"I'm not psychotic every time my brain goes funny." says Regulus offended. "Not that it does."

"You were always psychotic." Sirius shoots him down not that gently. "I want to know what the fuck are you talking about." he says exasperated. After twelve years he's rather out on popular culture.

"It's muggle literature." explains Remus. Ah, then he's allowed not to know, so he shrugs.

"Ah."

"And I said it because you are really difficult to understand." she says.

"If your sorting was fast doesn't mean that the rest don't have the right to be complicated."

"Well, it wasn't immediate." she defends herself. "But it was rather normal-length."

"Don't worry, it couldn't be shorter than James' sorting." says Remus. Sirius smiles fondly at James' memory. "The hat barely touched his hair and he was already heading towards the Gryffindor table."

"All brawn and no brain." mutters Regulus, and it is quite clear that he didn't like the Potter boy. No surprise, subconsciously he probably always saw it as if he'd stolen away his brother.

"Also applicable to most of you and some Hufflepuffs." says Sirius.

"Not true!"

"Come on Dora, he's only teasing you." says Remus.

Sirius then raises a finger to Regulus, just about to speak, and tells him. "If you so much as join forces now, with a Hufflepuff, you'll see."

"Is that a threat?" asks Regulus. "Do I look like the kind of man that would be intimidated?"

"Yes, you do." he answers with a smug edge.

"You guys are so funny." says Tonks, earning herself a couple of bad looks. "Like an old married couple."

"Now, is she calling us old or a couple?" asks Regulus. Remus chuckles.

"I think it's the first one." muses Sirius. "Because I truly resent the implications of the second. We all know the incestuous ways of the family, no need to rub it in."

"Nope."

"No."

"Wasn't meaning that."

"I know." he says." But you do have guard duty today, and well... Mad-Eye won't remain in the dark forever.

She grunts.

"Merlin, you are really an insufferable git."

"Even I can't do miracles, cousin."

"Gotta' be going." she says as she shuffles about trying to find her los scarf. "I'm supposed to be relieving Arthur in ten minutes."


	21. Chapter 20: Of All The Ways To Be A Blac

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Twenty - ****Of All The Ways To Be A Black...**

Ear-piercing shrieks fit to shrink the bravest heart shake Grimmauld place, in an implausible attempt, perhaps, to rouse the dead. The portrait of Mrs Black is at it yet again; something which is becoming routine of a sort in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Moody was to blame this time. The really annoying habit the ex-auror has of slamming the door was the responsible, yet again, of a mid-morning shrieking bout.

Steps can be heard coming down the corridor, down the stairs. The soles of good quality shoes against cold marble, steady, unhurried. That's the bad thing about things like this, as crazy as it sounds, overtime you get used to them. And thank God one does, because otherwise you'd lose it.

So Sirius comes up slowly to her; her portrait really, but her personality is so grating even in canvas that one tends to humanize the object in question. And he stands in front of her, looking levelly into her lost eyes; if she'd been alive he could've said he'd overcome the blind rage she causes in him, but only being a portrait it only means he no longer looks like a madman shouting at a piece of paint on the wall. As her screams are only grating, but there is no horribly compelling call to blow her off the wall he is in no particular hurry to shut the curtains. The house is too silent.

"Blood traitor! Abomination, shame of my flesh! Begone from these place, form the sacred solar of my ancestors! You are no better than the scum you rub shoulders with!"

He knows from experience the most hurried you are to shut her up the most struggle she puts forward and the longer you take to bring the house back into silence again. Sirius doesn't flicker; he doesn't even bat an eyelash, that blank his face is. He just looks at her, trying to be imposing from her grave and failing miserably instead making a pitiful scene of a completely insane wasted old woman.

And while he looks at her through half lidded eyes and an indifferent mask he wonders how anyone could take a woman like that regal, commanding, or graceful or for absolutely anything else that is not the old hag he knows she was.

A tap on his shoulder makes him turn slightly around. Regulus is there watching the ongoing battle of wills with no robes on... even when it is freezing cold. He's dirty, and carrying a bucket of murky water which he silently offers to him as some sort of archaic anger management. His offer is only met by stony silence; and it is really curious that one can consider it stony silence with a screeching portrait right before them.

"You know you want to." says Regulus after a good five minutes without response. "You are dying to."

The woman keeps yelling like the mad woman she is, it is possible that she really doesn't take notice of who it is she's yelling at. Sirius moves his eyes imperceptibly, from the bucket to his brother and then to the portrait. Without comment he takes the filthy bucket in one quick movement and sloshes all that admittedly disgusting water over it. The portrait instantly stops screaming, her eyes impossibly open and mouth still open in shock.

She looks from one brother to the other, as shell-shocked as every time she takes notice of Regulus and even more because this surely she didn't expect. Sirius doesn't give her the chance to recover; he takes the cord by the curtains and pulls them closed smoothly over her face. He only regrets vaguely that the mess will need to be cleaned, but he only _scourgifies_ it for the moment.

"You don't know how much I needed to do that." whispers Sirius as they head upstairs.

"I don't?" he returns, and Sirius turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

God only knows why the world makes him to be the impatient and impulsive one of the two. He guesses it is because Regulus doesn't ever actually do something by himself, but gets him to do it instead. It is a perverse dynamic between the two that has already grown old.

"I'd appreciate that next time you want to do something you do it yourself and not talk me into it; we're not kids anymore and no-one is going to slap you." he grumbles. "Otherwise I come out as a crackpot."

"I don't think that suggesting something might actually help you counts as talking you into anything." says Regulus. Sirius glowers at him and he shuts up.

"I'm not talking about now particularly, you see. I'm saying more like..." he gestures. "...somehow every time you do something wrong I get blamed for it.

Regulus bites his lip, and represses a chuckle; as it is true that since their early childhood Sirius has almost always taken the blame for him, sometimes by association and sometimes not. He supposes he should be grateful because every time he has not, the consequences have been disastrous, for him of course. For Sirius they are always disastrous.

"Must I remind you that it is because you give in to me?" he says. "I don't force you at wandpoint."

"I don't give in. I am dragged into whatever mess you've gotten yourself into." he answers.

"You didn't use to complain so much." says Regulus peeved, as they reach the second floor.

"Yes, I was too busy trying to get you out of trouble to complain." replies Sirius acidly as he heads towards the study, leaving Regulus standing there looking at the retreating figure of his brother.

Regulus winces momentarily when he remembers his youthful stupidity is partially to blame for the mess Sirius fell into, and wishes he really, really hadn't been that thick.

It is always been like that time they broke the grandfather clock, for them. Well, he broke it, Sirius realized before anyone else, and when their mother found them he said it'd been him. Of course Walburga Black was no fool and knew Sirius was no klutz and punished them both; him for being a klutz and Sirius for his stupidly overprotective lie to their mother. Or in some other instances; like when he coerced him to help him publicly humiliate Malfoy because he'd laughed at him. It turned out perfect as he'd acted as the bait and Sirius had managed to pull the rug from under him and make him tumble down the stairs, they hadn't even been blamed for it. Only, Malfoy had bullied Sirius from then on. Not that Sirius was one to let himself be bullied. Stinging spells were magic against it.

Regulus had practiced religiously the old adagio that it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt. Something he learnt as he went and got tired to always being compared depreciatively to Sirius' early efforts at magic. Only, that policy made him look a bit glum and invariably dimmer than Sirius; so he looked pretty dumb by comparison. But that way nobody really knew for sure, nobody _knew_ if he was good at this or that, and it gave him leverage over most uncomfortable situations. Later at Hogwarts it had evolved into that distorted image of Regulus in which he was too boringly incapable of any mischief, and no one had found plausible that it had been him who'd hexed Irving's underwear to painfully compress his privates.

But now was a time in which life and death, and adult people were concerned. All very good reasons to watch out, since this is _now_. So, day in day out, he has to talk himself out of complaining too much about being locked up or trying to rile Sirius up more than usual, because it is a problem they both have and it isn't a valid solution to go and rise Sirius' levels of frustration further. It is a problem they both have and getting Sirius to handle the wrong end of it is terribly bad for the two of them in the long run.

He goes upstairs, up to the fourth floor and stops in front of the door of his old room. Sirius's door is clean and looks lived in. He cleaned it months ago, and hurried out of the room he was sharing with him downstairs when more space was needed. Regulus instead still lives down there. Truth is he hasn't been able to gather enough strength for it. He only rummaged through it the very first day looking for clothes that fit him, even if they were from twenty years prior.

He takes a deep breath when he comes in front of his old room, and he stops with his hand in the doorknob. Then his eyes come to rest over the sign hanging under the brass letters of his name.

_Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black_.

He reaches to remove it, but stops himself with his hand hovering in mid-air. He'd written that warning when Sirius was still around; it was supposed to keep his room a sanctuary away from his prying eyes. It had never worked that way, of course. He cringes at how horribly pompous and conceited he sounds judging from that sign alone. If he met his younger self now, they would most likely not be getting along.

It was a stuck-up and presumptuous sign to place there, especially because it was completely useless. It was like placing a _Do not eat_ sing on a delicious apple that is just in front of you, it only makes it more noticeable. If someone had the ability to overcome his hexed doorknob, it was precisely Sirius. And with a wry smile, he has to recognize that he had every right to take retaliation when he, Regulus; systematically caused a whirlwind in his belongings and purposefully dislodged his books from their rightful place.

Shocking as it may seem, Sirius was rather organized, had been since he was a very small child. Now he was so even more, which was a bit irritating. Survival instincts had soon determined that this way you could tell in an instant if your snot nosed little brother snuck into your room and took something away, if you knew where everything was supposed to be. Or if you would hide things from your parents it was best if you knew exactly where they were hidden, just in case. He always knew exactly where all of his possessions were. Probably that's why everyone got a kick out of moving Sirius's things around and seeing how long it took him to notice. And that included Potter because he'd heard once a rather heated argument about this and Potter's laughter... but that's another story, he remembers basically because he'd always felt a special satisfaction when Potter and Sirius had been arguing.

Sirius had a mean streak and hexed your shoes if you weren't careful, so he was thirteen when he'd hung his warning on the door. His hand wavers, and finally leaves it where it is. The paper is old, the ink is a bit faded, but it doesn't hurt to leave it as a warning that the door is still hexed. He could remove it, but then he'd have to worry about itching powder in his sheets if ever those devilish twins lodge in Grimmauld place again. And let's admit it he does like his privacy.

When he was young he'd used to put a secret code on the door in order to keep intruders out, from the moment he figured out how to change it; although it never stopped Sirius from breaking in either. And the worst thing about having a password only you knew, now twenty years in disuse, is that chances are you won't remember. He doesn't remember what it was that worked a few months back. He should write it down. He places the tip of his wand on the lock and mutters a few words in Latin under his breath. The door remains the same; he curses his rotten memory under his breath and tries again with another likely combination. The door creaks open.

In the darkened room across the threshold, the room still is like he left it in1979, plus the mess he made looking for fitting robes last august. Provably his parents never bothered to enter the room again.

The room has a greenish glow to it. Not that it glows green _per se_; more like the timid light floats ethereally around and reflects in the green coverlet, and on the green banners adorning the room. Coincidentally, combined with the dust of almost two decades it makes it look, at risk to sounding like a dumb Gryffindor, even creepier than it should. Slytherin colours, emerald and silver, are everywhere, over the elegant light desaturated blue wallpaper and the sea-blue curtains. It leaves no room to confusion as to which house he'd been sorted into.

The Black family crest is proudly painted over the head of the bed, along with its motto. _Toujours Pur_. It is a sad place to have it engraved, looming there in your sleep, he thinks now. Close to his nightstand there is an irregularity in the elegant room that quickly catches the roving eye. He centres his attention on the collection of yellow newspaper cuttings that stand beneath. They are all stuck together to make a ragged collage. They also are all about Voldemort. He remembers having collected them throughout his years at Hogwarts, in fact, he had been quite a fan of him for a few years. Had he only known. He'd fancied himself the powerful and devoted follower, the future right-hand man. How could he had ever thought he'd have stomach for any of this was a mystery. Anyone else could have been fooled, but surely he should've known. Sirius had known, after all. But no-one else had. They'd all assumed when time came he'd do what was required of him as the perfect pureblood-son. Only that he wasn't, and now hates to think about it all. Even if he is Order, the inactivity still allows him to bury his head under the sand. He starts taking them down, one after the other, until only the wall is left there, with the shadows of the contours of the old paper clippings over it.

Then, he turns his gaze towards a picture that stands on his nightstand. It is a Quidditch team formation that is smiling and waving out of the frame. The proud snakes of Slyhterin are emblazoned on their chest. He finds himself sitting in the middle of the front row being very young and very stupid, in the rightful place entitled to the seeker. Back at Hogwarts he had been the seeker and had become the Capitan of the team. He smiled bitterly at the image of himself, he had the same hair, the same features, and the same grey eyes that his brother, but somehow he had always looked weaker, and rather less handsome. He had been thinner, smaller and slighter than him.

He heads towards the window, and opens the curtains, allowing the light to enter through the dusty glass. He looks through the window, down from the cornice projecting from the side of the house and over the great window panelling over the Master room; down at the street. This high up the light is much better, and you can see the meagre trees from the square further below. It is such a dull place. Then he turns to his old desk. It is as tidy as it always had been; nothing on it except an old inkpot and a quill. He grabs the inkpot and opens it to inspect it. From the inside emerges a foul stench that would have been found revolting by Snape himself, used as he is to disagreeable odours.

"This goes directly to the bin." He mutters as he brings it away from his face and shakes his head trying to dispel the repulsive smell. He sits on his old chair and proceeds to open the table drawers.

He knows that they won't be as tidy as the table; if the way no-one has touched anything, is something to go by. The room is not elf-warded, they could have sent one to sort out his things. He knows this basically because his tactic to keep his table tidy has always been stuffing his things inside the drawers. There is nothing of value inside, just old text books, worn out from use, scribbled parchment and other useless mementoes. He even finds one of the toys of his old cat, Snowy.

He sighs and draws his wand, conjuring a big box out of thin air. He _accioes_ the pieces of newspaper and throws them into the box. He surveys the nightstand, but concludes that he won't throw the pictures. They are innocent enough. Going over to the drawer of the nightstand finds an old book and several potions. They used to be part of his medication. They must be well over their expiration date. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn't taken anything for his little problems in very long years. It is an awful risk he shouldn't be taking in his circumstances, if it can be avoided. Maybe he should ask someone that can go out to buy some. But probably he won't because chances are Snape is the one who'd end up being asked. He removes the book and looks at it, he must have removed it from the library because it isn't a textbook. He leaves it on the bed, in order to return it to its place the sooner the better.

He goes back to the table and throws the inkpot in the box. He looks at the quill, it is in a good state and you never know when you'll need one, so he leaves it back on the table. He empties the drawers and starts throwing out all those textbooks that are no use for him, until he remember Sirius is putting them in them up library. Even if they will be duplicated he can at least check if they are in a better condition than Sirius'. At any rate, his brother doesn't have here any NEWT level books. The inkpots, the broken quills, the old smudged parchment, all goes into the box.

Right after emptying the drawers he makes his way downstairs and gets rid of it all. Then he moves his efforts to the closet next to the window. There he kept the more practical part of his robes; therefore it is the one that's partially empty from his raid earlier this year. Only a few are left there and his old broom is resting against the closet wall. There are left a Hogwarts-issued school uniform that is usable, but he is definitely not wearing again; a robe so faded he doesn't know how it survived that long in there and a couple of a colour too ugly to be worn, even if you are locked in your demised parents' house. So he takes them in hand and throws them on the floor for later disposal. In a the inside drawers there are more shirts of white and severe colours, all in good condition, and a few functional ugly jumpers very similar to those worn under a school uniform. All those he sets in another box he just conjures. The photos plastered at the insides of the doors are another matter. He's got them covered with the few photos left of them as children; how can anyone so well off have so few pictures of their own children? Nevermind. Sirius would laugh himself silly if he knew he was keeping this in the closet, even if it was because he felt wrong completely eliminating them, so he hid them from view. How screwed-up is that anyway? It had been ages since Sirius and him had been that close; anywhere near close.

He pulls the broom out of the closet and after a quick inspection it is decided that it is in good repair so he keeps it even if he knows he will never use it again. He throws out everything from his old quidditch robes but from the jumper, because it is a comfortable thing to wear under your robes when the house gets too cold to sleep in simply pyjamas.

He makes sure his job in the small closet is done. He kicks the things out of his way rather than remove them, because he's too lazy, and decides that now that he's done with everything else there is no point ignoring the walk in closet. So he walks in; and audibly sighs... looks like he's going to need another _big_ box.

::::::::::::::

"What on Earth is this?" the petite aging redhead says, rather baffled.

It is not unfair to say that people at headquarters are busy people, and that she complains a bit too much (and she knows it). Nonetheless, there are times when it is well-deserved.

There is a corner in the hallway down to the kitchen, mostly out of view where laundry tends to accumulate. There is a laundry box that is more like a container, which by unspoken agreement everyone uses. So it is normal for it to be smelly, it is normal for it to be rather full and it is normal that no-one empties it. Not unless you'd be able to smell it from three miles around.

When Molly Weasley comes around, she claims she does so to check how things are going. And when she says that, it is just as it sounds, she checks that that bunch of disorderly men haven't got some horrible case of food-poisoning; or a gross case of infestation going on. You could say that she has very little faith in the male sex; but she's got ample experience with those and she's always been under the impression that they're a bit like piglets that like to wallow in their own... waste. And they can't take care of themselves.

She washes the dishes, replenishes the pantry, cooks and occasionally does the laundry. And that's what she's in her way to do today. There is the added bonus that is huffing and spluttering and finally barking at Sirius Black to get his damn shoes down, because the kitchen table is definitely not the place for them to be. Later she pretends not to notice as he dismisses her lecture as soon as she turns her back on him, and returns to his newspaper and his casual sprawl. But she pretends not to see, it isn't as if she is getting walked over. But today the pile of clothing is for one, too big, to dusty and too colourful. She'll rephrase that, it's too expensive. She looks baffled at the clothes, and notes that it isn't something around here should be wearing. She looks critically at the embroidery on the topmost one and sighs.

"Sirius, I'm doing your laundry. Ok?" asks the woman with a weary look.

"Yes, of course Molly, do as it pleases you. It's not even mine in the first place." he says rather indifferently. "It's Regulus'. He's decided to finally clean up his room. I'm not dissuading him from it, but I'm not doing laundry for him either.

"Was this necessary?" she says, with a thinning of her lips.

"Really? I guess no." is his answer. "But then again most of them fit him still. Not that he's wearing them again, but... I guess my solution would've been more to your liking, thrown them all out... but the case is different anyway because definitely none of them fit me anymore."

She is there looking with little fondness at the mound of clothing in the hallway, somewhere between exasperated and horrified at the prospect of throwing away robes that cost more than Arthur makes in a year.

"Told him it would be a great idea to at least have it separated from the useful kind of laundry, but he paid no heed... as usual."

She resigns herself to her chore, thinking that at least Black here's got a reason to be annoyed. She has to hand it to him that he generally makes his own laundry, and he is the one who most often empties the laundry box. The look Sirius gets every time the laundry is brought up makes her think that it is very likely that he's the only other soul there with a slight idea of how to wash clothing without shrinking it to gnome proportions.

"Well, anyway." she mutters. "It is not the kind of laundry I'm used to."

The delicate silk, is definitely not something she sees often.

"Yes, my mother was always a bit classy." he comments the man. She bites her lip before asking why someone would want to have that many clothes. His cool indifference makes her think that he doesn't give any of this much importance.

"So, he's being punished?" she asks him with a small smile.

The wry smile that pulls up at Sirius' lips is answer enough.

::::::::::::::

For Sirius' standards, Regulus spends a ridiculous amount of time sorting out his old room, and it is obvious that he has every intention of moving his things up there once again. He's an animal of habit. And he has ample time to scoff at Regulus' choice of password, mentally and vocally once he gets the chance. Once he changes it, it gives him opportunity to do some mental gymnastics.

Meanwhile his humour balances between irritated, resigned and... resigned.

Sirius knows that there are many outlooks in life. Therefore, he is aware that happy and content, are a mood that is theoretically possible. Nonetheless he prides himself of not lying to anyone, even if that includes not indulging in self-delusion. Which leads to taking a conscious stance, that there are circumstances that don't warrant for any of the above. And whatever people think, he is neither ignorant nor stupid, so... once you are logically aware of how fucked up things are objectively speaking, even if they have been worse, you only can aim for resigned.

The optimist always thinks the glass is half full. The philosopher thinks that the glass is neither half full nor half empty. The futurist thinks that the liquid should be on the other half of the glass. The shrink asks what people's mothers think about the glass's quantity. And somehow the drinker thinks that the glass needs more ice. One can choose our perspectives, but to him the sanest answer among these is that it's half empty. If that makes him a pessimist so be it.

It has finally become obvious that his physically deteriorated state was not meant to be permanent, even if he's still slim. People come and go with a little bit more frequency, and his levels of tolerance for human stupidity are high enough that he doesn't feel the burning need to make scathing comments to anyone that comes in sight just as often, which in turn makes people stop avoiding him so much. Life should be good. Should be enough.

Nonetheless currently he holds a grudge with mirrors. He knows it's childish, he knows it's insane... although he's been told that too many times to care. He should be glad to see how he no longer is a famished fleabag with sunken cheeks, but when he's in a particularly bad mood he thinks he'd rather see that that an almost exact replica of his father frowning back at him from the smooth surface of the mirror.

Maybe, he thinks wistfully, if he wasn't forced to dress in the old man's clothes, he wouldn't look so dour. Wistful thinking he has to recognize.

He does have a grudge with all those stupid enough to forget not to confuse him with his brother, though. He can come with many awfully good explanations for that; from being that they forget Regulus exists at all, to sudden blindness. He doesn't care, even if he's being irrational. Who said smart people weren't allowed to be irrational, anyway?

There are noticeable differences, although some may argue with you. They do have more or less the same build; both are tall and have long hair too. But Sirius is taller and Regulus has a somewhat thinner face, if you squint. They also have trademark facial expressions that aren't quite the same, so there are no grounds for confusion. Besides, Sirius' voice even after losing its Azkaban hoarseness is deeper, and resounds easily as he speaks. Regulus' is higher pitched, and somewhat scratchier from years of smoking.

When he was young, he made it a point to look the least like a Black that he could get away with. He turned twenty and he still wore the children's pure-blooded hairstyle, short and neat and closely cropped at the back of his neck. And he's always maintained that people were stupid for taking that as grounds for him childish. I was a perfectly normal muggle hairstyle after all. How can you judge a person immature by their looks anyway? But at the time they'd looked and said, oh well, it walks like a Black, talks like a Black, but must be something else. Nonetheless, time and age, and a short temper may be the reason that now many think it walks like a Black, talks like a Black... so it must be a Black after all.

Lupin at least hasn't made that mistake ever, but he's a werewolf and thusly gifted with a prodigious sense of smell well over and above the normal human spectrum, so he's not entirely convinced he deserves the medal.

He's convinced Mad-Eye and friends to let him do something, even if it is only research and other such prospects. After all he's a perfectly good, capable member, who can do it quicker than most and has no other duties; so the question to him is why they didn't want him to do that earlier. It is not as if there's reason to enter into the policy forbidding them from knowing the details of the missions they aren't in, because he's been the middle man for Dumbledore for a year and he knows everything there is to know anyway.

"Sirius!?" Sturgis comes running down the corridor dogging him down. The dark-haired man turns around wearily.

"Yes, Sturgis?" the answer nonetheless come from behind himself. Sirius looks exhausted, and like Regulus his collar is half open. He leans in the kitchen doorframe with a look that dares you to make that mistake once again. He seems to be infinitely pleased with himself when he sees Podmore flinch.

"But my friend, a Black doeth not a Sirius make." he says in an awfully mocking tone and Sturgis looks at him wearily.

"Sorry, Mad-Eye wanted to tell you..." he says.

"I know what he wanted to tell me." is the scathing reply. "Unlike some people who are apparently deaf I do hear conversations carried out shouting in my own house which manage to awake my own damn mother."

"You know Mundungus is half deaf." he says, peeved.

"Yes, and you all are apparently a useless bunch of slobs." Sirius scowls. "I might have to tell him it's because you particularly need glasses."

Sturgis stutters and disappears with a suitably offended look about him. Nymphadora shakes her head ruefully, and nudges Shacklebolt on the ribs, who's been looking on with a blank face.

"If I have a sudden, burning desire to be strung by my toes remember I should confuse my dear cousins." she says, and Sirius scowls.

"There is no ground for confusing me with anyone." he says with his haughty tone. "He's shorter than I, uglier than I; more stupid than I… you count." These affirmations are followed by a soft coughing, that is ignored in favour of his rant. "Younger than I, more disagreeable than I, and far more unpleasant than I!"

He stops off to his usual haunts.

"He was a bit over the line, wasn't he?" Hestia says when his footsteps fade away.

"I don't care as long as he's not lashing out at me." says Regulus calmly. "But he's a bastard and people do have a tendency to be that annoying."

His wry smile gives him away, and the tension seems to lessen somewhat. Most have come to at least respect Regulus, as he so far seems able to deal with Sirius with some ease; even if his presence prompts bursts of temper like the one they've just witnessed. Even as an adult, the combination of his shrewd intelligence and prickly personality puts most people off before they ever get a chance to know him. The thought of being the only one having to withstand a child with that keen eye and those verbal gymnastic skills would have been more than enough grounds for a sympathy from anyone; and Regulus is probably the only one to know he doesn't deserve it... much.

"Whatever, I've gotta go." Kingsley says, rolling his eyes, which oddly it only makes them stand out in the middle of his dark face.

"Yeah, we probably should..." says Tonks. "Seeya later Reg. Are you coming Remus?" She asks the man, who's remained pretty quiet through it all, although to his credit he has remained unflappable; as if it were normal, which it probably is inside the cannons of their strange friendship.

"Of course." he tells her with a charming smile. "Where are you going tonight...?"

And of course both are pretty unaware of the remaining set of eyes watching them, as well as the furrowed brow.

::::::::::::::

The door of the study rebounds rather dramatically against the door and slams shout with just as much force. And there has been no knock. Sirius raises his head momentarily to ascertain that he has the identity of the body that's just thrown itself dramatically over an armchair correct.

"Arrgh…! I can't stand it anymore!" Regulus says as he throws a hand over his eyes, and rubs his face tiredly.

"What the heck are you talking about this time?" asks Sirius, slightly amused, but he's not likely to let it show this early into the conversation. "What are you rambling about? Wait, I forgot that you speak a foreign language most of the time."

"Lupin and Tonks!" cries out the younger brother indignantly, with a roll of his eyes.

"What about them?" he says disinterestedly returning his eyes to an old issue of _Transfiguration Today_. _Switching Spells Revisited _–_ A Critical Assessment of Switching Techniques for Inanimate Objects._ It is a long boring article about some more or less useless piece of knowledge, but at times like this it is best that the inane chatter of some people.

Most people outside of the academic wouldn't bother reading something like this because while in the theoretically it might be very interesting, the results are really not worth the bother. Most people lose sight of them when they pass their NEWTs. When he'd taken them, they'd had to switch between two animate objects, which is one of the more difficult applications in that field. He remembered how he had, just for fun, switched a hamster in its cage and a large goldfish in its glass, standing several feet apart on different examiners' desks, after the simple, boring intra-species switch between the brown and the white hamster in front of him they had asked him to perform. His examiner had been astonished, and Roderick Garland never talked to him again after his switching went awry when his goldfish disappeared. This article is bent over proving how the author found a more effective way around switching spells, although if that is true he yet has to make his point.

He absentmindedly notes that whatever Regulus was saying, his long winded speech is coming to an end rather imminently, and that contrary to most people, who when ignored properly just shut up and leave him the hell alone; Regulus seems to not care one bit if he is indeed listening.

"They are so disgustingly…. "_no, you first_"... "_no, really, you first_"..."_No, I insist, you first_"…" says in a high squealing voice. "Erg! It's sickeningly sweet, no matter how you look at it."

Sirius sighs, and finally closes his journal, resigning himself that the quicker he asks all the proper questions the sooner will the imminent death of this rather one-sided conversation come to pass.

"What did they do this time?"

"I had to call Nymphadora for the coffee pot _six_ times before they even noticed I was in the same room." says Regulus', exasperation and frustration is rolling off of him in waves. Of this late, the forced house-arrest is taking its toll harder on Regulus, who is a bit cranky, and definitely needs to steam off. Being generally annoying normally cuts it.

"Oh, your attention-seeking personality must be really hurt." says Sirius sarcastically.

"I mean, will they ever do something about it or will they keep torturing the rest of the humanity for an indefinite amount of time?" he says.

"Provably… eventually." Sirius says laconically, but has to berate himself for mentally sniggering at the thought.

"I must recognise that Lupin seems pretty oblivious." comments the younger brother. "Either he is the greatest actor ever, or he's a total idiot. Because no one can be as clueless." Sirius snorts.

"He's a master at playing the fool."

"Why can't he go and shag her already?" asks Regulus, with a rare infantile whine. Sirius raises an eyebrow.

"Do you realise you are talking about your cousin?" Sirius says, almost shocked out of his boredom for a few seconds.

"My interest in my own sanity overrides any concern I might have about her well-being." Regulus sneers, and extracts a dull chuckle out of Sirius.

"Nice." he comments.

"Not that Lupin would do too wrong by her, he's too much of a disgustingly honourable Gryffindor to even think about it." says Regulus.

"That's the reason he doesn't do it in the first place." adds Sirius. "And you got it all wrong. If there's anything that might make this not work is precisely _that_."

"Well, he's your friend." said Regulus. "Talk with him or something."

"That would be counter-productive." he says rather unhelpfully. _Basically because he would realise that he's being very obvious, be horrified by the fact, stop altogether and take a self-imposed exile to the Antarctica. _Although it hurts to think that the fact that he's stuck living with two of the most observant people ever might not clue him into him not being that obvious either.

"I never thought you'd fall for the matchmaker thing." Regulus glares at him.

"Well, we are stuck here. It's boring as hell, and there isn't anything better to do than talk to the portraits or watch the people." explains Regulus. "And I'd rather watch the people, you can actually learn something from them. On top of it all, the people around here are just exasperating." Sirius looks at him with a bit of contempt.

"Is that it? Have you already spit everything out?" says Sirius with false solicitousness.

"Yes." Regulus says glaring rather pointedly.

"Then get your ass out of this room and go bother someone else!" says as he retakes his reading with a parsimonious look.

Regulus knows he should do better; he's losing his touch if he can only get Sirius to look bored. He used to be able to extract a rather more healthy raging mood. Oh, well... one must keep trying.


	22. Chapter 21: Through The Fireplace

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One – Through The Fireplace**

There is a jinxed window in the fourth floor corridor that refuses to stay shut. For such a small window it sure puts forth quite a fight, snapping on unsuspecting fingers, screeching and trembling so much it seems as if the glass is about to shatter at any moment. Regulus noted it when in one of its whims it became opaque every time he tried to look at the street below through it.

At the moment Regulus is holding the window open, for which it takes rather more strength than to have a bulky fellow in a chokehold. The rather animate window is lurching and struggling to be released, and he holds on as Sirius tinkles over with the hinges, under the risk of it smashing the side of his scalp, which has already happened once.

Hurried steps up from the stairwell make Sirius raise his head from his work, at the soft coughing his werewolf friend issues to attract his attention. Or at least it seems so to Regulus because _he_ is already looking, and it was otherwise a perfect waste of breath.

"Why, hello Remus." says Sirus as he cleans his hands with an oily rag. "Care to give us a hand?"

The worried look on Lupin's face gives him pause, though; and he takes a step away from the window ledge, leaving his brother to deal with the mad window except for the immeasurable help that was his shoulder preventing the window from smashing closed.

"Sirius, Harry is at the fireplace." he says, worry filling his words. "he wants to talk to you."

Sirius frowns, and unceremoniously dumps everything he has in his hands, and pockets his wand. He also forgets all about the trashing window.

"Finish this off." he throws over his shoulders.

Regulus makes a dive after losing his grip on the window and somehow he manages to let the window smash his fingers rather viciously. The pained howl follows Sirius down the stairs, but Sirius is too worried to care, as much as Regulus is too pained to be worried.

They enter the kitchen, with Sirius dogging Remus at his heels. His eyes zero down to the fireplace swiftly and then it is a battle between being worried at his godson's expression or relieved that he is still there and has not been caught.

"What is it?" says Sirius urgently, sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes as it has come loose again in his struggles with the window, and dropping to the ground in front of the fire, so that he and Harry are on a level. He is dimly aware of Remus kneeling down beside him too.

"Are you all right? Do you need help?" he prompts again.

He glances at his friend fleetingly and confirms that he is not by far the only one who's worried sick. He doesn't show it though, because he apparently works inversely to any other sane person, his face is more impenetrable when vulnerable emotions come down on him that at any other give moment. Sirius likes to term it as a deficiency in facial expression transmission.

"No," says Harry, "it's nothing like that… I just wanted to talk… about my dad."

Sirius can almost hear himself sigh in relief, seconds before he has to suppress the urge to snap at Harry about not being a pertinent issue to be discussed on a potentially monitored fireplace. But Harry looks so distraught that instead he chooses to look at Remus, exchanging a look of great surprise when they check with each other that they have not misheard.

"Yes, I accidentally looked at Snape's pensive," starts to explain. "and I saw my dad at my age, with you. And you were under a tree. And you were talking about the exam. And then appeared Snape, and you all started to hex him and mock him in front of everyone. Then dad asked this girl out, in front of the crowd and she yelled at him. But he never stopped messing with Snape."

They wouldn't have understood what he was talking about were it not for the fact that they have that particular memory engraved in their minds. When he's finished, neither Sirius nor Lupin speak for a moment.

"I wouldn't like you to judge your father on what you saw there, Harry. He was only fifteen" says Remus quietly.

"I'm fifteen!" says Harry heatedly.

"Look, Harry" says Sirius, thinking closely about the best way to present the truth, or half-truth to the agitated teen. "James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other. It was just one of those things, you can understand that, can't you? I think James was everything Snape wanted to be he was popular; he was good at Quidditch good at pretty much everything. And Snape was just this little oddball who was up to his eyes in the Dark Arts, and James whatever else he may have appeared to you, Harry always hated the Dark Arts."

There, it is not the total truth, but one far more digestible than the truth. You don't tell an orphaned teenager that Snape wasn't the only one James had had a problem with, but that he was the only one that had never been able to either win him over or avoid him completely, but had instead chosen to goad him more often. Too much pride in both of them.

"Yeah," says Harry, "but he just attacked Snape for no good reason, just because well, just because you said you were bored." he finishes, with a slightly apologetic note in his voice.

Sirius fancies that he can feel the knife sinking between his ribs. His younger self had been a lot of things, amongst them there were some glaring defects: he had been cheeky, overconfident and didn't know modesty back then.

"I'm not proud of it." says Sirius quickly. Lupin looks sideways at the quick evasion.

"Look, Harry," says Remus. "what you've got to understand is that your father and Sirius were the best in the school at whatever they did, everyone thought they were the height of cool if they sometimes got a bit carried away."

"If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you mean," said Sirius bitterly. Lupin smiles sadly at him, but with affection nonetheless.

"He kept messing up his hair." says Harry in a pained voice. Sirius and Lupin laugh quietly at that.

"I'd forgotten he used to do that." said Sirius affectionately, feeling the warmth of the faraway memories for a moment.

"Was he playing with the Snitch?" said Lupin eagerly recalling the memories it brought on, a light in his eyes often absent.

"Yeah," says Harry, watching uncomprehendingly their tolerant smiles. "Well… I thought he was a bit of an idiot."

"Of course he was a bit of an idiot!" says Sirius bracingly. "We were all idiots! Well not Moony so much..."

He says in deference of his quiet friend after mere seconds of thought. This makes Lupin shake his head. Remus Lupin will never confess how much he enjoyed his friends company precisely because they did and said what he would've died to be able to allow himself to do and say.

"Did I ever tell you to lay off Snape?" he says. "Did I ever have the guts to tell you I thought you were out of order?"

"Yeah, well," Sirius shrugs it away, "you made us feel ashamed of ourselves sometimes… that was something…."

"And..." says Harry doggedly, frowning all the while. "he kept looking over at the girls by the lake, hoping they were watching him!"

Harry's indignation at James' cocky behaviour is humorous at best, considering how little does he look like Lily, except maybe for the eyes.

"Oh, well, he always made a fool of himself whenever Lily was around." says Sirius, shrugging it away. "He couldn't stop himself showing off whenever he got near her."

"How come she married him?" Harry asks miserably. "She hated him!"

"Nah, she didn't." said Sirius dismissingly. He thinks about telling him what makes truly abhorrent couples, or how about he's just taking fifteen-year-olds hasty words into an absolute, when Lupin spares him the effort.

"She started going out with him in seventh year." tells him Lupin.

"Once James had deflated his head a bit." Sirius points out cautiously.

"And stopped hexing people just for the fun of it." Lupin finishes.

"Even Snape?" says Harry.

"Well," says Lupin slowly, measuring his words carefully. "Snape was a special case. I mean, he never lost an opportunity to curse James so you couldn't really expect James to take that lying down, could you?"

"And my mum was OK with that?" is the sceptical response.

"She didn't know too much about it, to tell you the truth," says Sirius, wryly. "I mean, James didn't take Snape on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did he?"

He frowns at Harry's unconvinced look. No-one is to say hexing Snape was a good thing to do, but people victimize him, seemingly forgetting he was an evil little git who spoke too much and easily hexed people who displeased him, which was almost everyone.

"Look," he says, "your father was the best friend I ever had and he was a good person. A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it."

_Some people never grow out of it._

"Yeah, OK." says Harry heavily. "I just never thought I'd feel sorry for Snape."

"Now you mention it," said Lupin, a faint crease between his eyebrows, "how did Snape react when he found you'd seen all this?"

"He told me he'd never teach me Occlumency again," says Harry indifferently, "like that's a big disappoint…"

"He _what_?" shouts Sirius, causing Harry to jump and inhale a mouthful of ashes, suddenly looking more alarmed than down.

"Are you serious, Harry?" says Lupin, whose calm often overweighs his temper. "He's stopped giving you lessons?"

"Yeah," says Harry, probably surprised at what he considers a great overreaction. "But it's OK, I don't care, it's a bit of a relief to tell you the…"

"I'm coming up there to have a word with Snape!" says Sirius forcefully, forgetting for a moment about Azkaban, the Ministry and bloody Voldemort, as he actually makes to stand up, but Lupin wrenches him back down again, and only doesn't manage to unbalance him, because he's Sirius and aside from possessing a great balance, he is used to it.

"If anyone's going to tell Snape it will be me!" he says firmly. "But Harry, first of all, you're to go back to Snape and tell him that on no account is he to stop giving you lessons…when Dumbledore hears..."

"I can't tell him that, he'd kill me!" says Harry, outraged. "You didn't see him when we got out of the pensieve."

Sirius is very grateful that Remus was there to receive the floo call, because if he speaks, he is afraid he might scare Harry off. It is normally no effort to soften his dour countenance and acid personality for the boy, but Snape in general makes it particularly trying. And he is in no rush to expose Harry to himself bared from all shields because he's pretty certain it isn't a pretty sight. It isn't unusual for Sirius to lash out at everyone eventually. It is the monster in him rising to the surface whenever he gets angry. Sirius knows his own anger is just part of what he is, _who_ he is. That doesn't mean he is eager to horrify the people he cares about, or that he is willing to push the boundaries of his relationship with Harry until it breaks.

"Harry there is nothing so important as you learning Occlumency!" argues Lupin sternly. "Do you understand me? Nothing!"

"OK, OK." says Harry, thoroughly discomposed, not to mention annoyed. "… I'll try and say something to him… but it won't be..."

He falls silent; the look on his face makes Sirius' skin crawl.

"Is that Regulus coming downstairs?" he asks urgently with a hint of worry in his voice.

"No" says Sirius, glancing behind him, to make sure. "It must be somebody your end."

He is fairly certain that Regulus would be screaming bloody murder at him if it was the case. Which only leaves the other unpleasant alternative; he can only pray that it is not that woman.

"I'd better go!" he says hastily and pulls his head out of the Grimmauld Place fire.

Sirius remains in a crouch in front of the fireplace watching the now golden flames while rising a fervent pray to whatever deities might be listening on Harry's behalf. Remus is still on his knees, and Sirius remembers that the last full moon trashed his left knee rather badly, and thusly is likely unable to stand up so he offers him a hand up while pushing himself upright.

Sirius wanders to the chair Lupin was sitting at the long, wooden table. The parchments he was poring over before the call, strewn about in a messy very Moony-like disorder. He'd promised to help once the window problem had been dealt with.

"Snape deserves a very painful death after at long drawn-out torture." Sirius says incensed, but sounding oddly cold to his own ears. "It is one thing to hold a grudge, and another blatantly disobey Dumbledore's orders for a personal matter, one matter in which doesn't risk himself, on top of that."

"Don't worry, I'll talk to Dumbledore about this." says Remus quietly. "He ought not to put an old rivalry in front of Harry's well being."

"The slimeball." mutters the grey-eyed man with the contempt due to Severus Snape.

"Come on," says Lupin. "You get your head out of that arse."

Sirius scoffs at his friend's insult, which is welcome in circumstances in which his anger gets the best of him. Remus' unaccustomed bluntness, which he reserves solely for his friends who know his true self better than anyone, allows him to be callous for a while and steam off without further damage. There is nothing wrong with being mutually rude after all.

"Do you think Harry was right?" asks Sirius.

"About which part exactly?" asks his werewolf friend placidly.

"About James being a first-class imbecile." Remus shakes his head in silent laughter.

"No, I don't think he was right. He could be a bit of a show off of sometimes, but he was a great person." says softly. "I wouldn't doubt that, ever."

Many would misunderstand Sirius' inquiry as if he had mutely included himself in the question. He at least knows that isn't the case because there is an ocean between James Potter and Sirius Black, no matter the friendship that tied them together. James was an idiot because he'd been very sheltered and very proud of himself, very convinced in his ways. Experience can teach anyone like that and make them better people if only there's a bit of good in them. James had collected strays, his charity cases, which he had helped, and curiously had expected nothing in return. He'd collected three of them.

Sirius had been one of these strays. This is not to say he had been lacking in free will. Saying so would be unfair to both of them because James had not been Sirius' master as many liked to believe, in fact had disapproved of many of his friends' actions and ideas. Assuming so meant James got all the blame as if Sirius had been a mindless puppet. No, James was simply a good understanding friend. Sirius had been problematic and lost; the living proof that having too much magic was just as much trouble as not having enough, a sneaky little bastard that made people's life hard.

If James had been an idiot, too stupid to see that his real gifts were neither his quidditch talent nor his questionable sense of humour; then Sirius had been a grade A jerk. James played pranks because he liked the fun; Sirius played pranks because he liked disturbing the order of the universe. He had, even through his supposed liberation from his parents, hidden himself behind the mask of cheery, vain, frivolous Padfoot. He who he has no feelings cannot be hurt by them, and that armour which has no chinks cannot be breached. What he'd hid was the true Sirius: too sad, too scarred and too lonely for anybody's liking.

That is why James had been a blessing, because he was well aware of something deeper but always respected it, not wanting anything else from him that he could give, nonetheless not letting himself be fooled by his outward reactions and dogging him when necessary. A glance at his friend told him he still had half that blessing because, although by different means, Remus had been a blessing too. He'd understood more than James, and seen trough him more often; he'd related and had left him space out of empathy because he knew what James could only suspect.

"He was my best friend, and I couldn't say one good thing about him to his son." he says glumly. "Couldn't even deny it all."

"That's because it happened. But he only saw it from Snape's point of view. He doesn't seem like the kind to own up to his own faults." says Remus.

"Right." he mutters. "Bet he thinks never did anything wrong."

"He was always hexing us, and taunting us..." Lupin reminisces. "But he was not stupid enough to do it in front of the whole school most of the time."

Sirius smiled sadly.

"I wish James was here." whispers the grey-eyed man. Remus sighs.

"We all do, Pads." Sirius flashes him a small grin at the use of the old nickname.

"Certainly, but don't you ever think that of all of us... he shouldn't have been the one to go." he says. "Any of us would've been a better choice."

"I'd be lying if I said I never do... but." he gives himself pause. "I also think that we shouldn't downplay anyone's importance in this war."

"Some are more useful than others." he says with a shrug. "I remind you I am a deeply secretive, terribly abrupt, selfish, impatient, imperious, vice-ridden recluse, for starters."

"Don't." Remus warns him away impatiently. "Think it this way, If you have been permitted to survive this far... there must be a good reason."

"I don't believe in your God." Sirius throws back. "I'm pagan1."

"Of course that you could also think that you simply are here and stop obsessing over it." he continues. "But that wouldn't be you.

Sirius shakes his head, and a fond smile appears.

"It is only that I miss how it was. How easy it was to be around James." he confesses. "It is not that he understood... that _never_. Now that I think of it I'd never have gone to him for advice, that's what you were for. One never felt down around him."

Lupin smiles fondly too, touched ant the backhanded compliment.

"Yeah, I remember." he says. "But he also couldn't understand that one liked to wallow in one's misery alone, that there were dreams not worth pursuing or that people was not truly good or truly bad..."

"Or that there were things from his life one could have no interest in." Sirius finishes wryly.

"Oh my! I do remember." Remus says with a laugh. "He did practice The Speech on you too, didn't he? I've never been more desperate for anything that for Lily to say that yes, she'd marry him, only so I wouldn't have to listen to it again."

"Ah, but he wasn't going to stop talking to us just because we weren't willing to listen. He liked listening to himself; it was one of his greatest pleasures." Sirius says, his silver-hued eyes twinkling madly. "He used to have long-lasting conversations with himself."

"While one of us snored away beside him." Remus says. "God, he'd be beet red and very mad at you if he could hear you mortify him. You did always enjoy provoking disasters."

"I got smarter in my old age." he returns. "Smart enough not to cause hell for the pure fun of it, at any rate. I still occasionally cause hell, but I've usually got a reason for it now."

"Usually?" is Remus' dry reply.

"Well, I can't say I don't enjoy picking fights," he admits flippantly. "If I didn't, I wouldn't do it, after all, would I?"

"Oh yes, something I ought to learn from you..." Remus says. "If you have to put an effort into it and you should at least expect to like the results."

"Really?"

"You've also taught me lots of other things, come to think of it." says Remus. "Like how to pick locks and falsify signatures, how to find the curse pertaining to each particular counter-curse and at least five thousand different loopholes in Magical Law."

There had been that volume of advanced counter-curses, in which any Hogwarts student worth their salt ought to soon discover that you only had to read the footnote to each counter-curse to find clues on where to learn the curse itself. Not that the protection spells and counter-curses didn't come in very handy, once that sort of information got around. Only that Sirius was the first one to discover it, of course. He is surprised that Remus still remembers.

"Is this your roundabout and emotionally constipated way of telling me that you missed me?" Sirius asks his greying friend with his peculiar brand of snarky humour.

"I don't see why anyone would love a frigid, egotistical bastard like you. Much less miss you." Remus returns with a broad smile.

Muffled steps coming from the staircase made them sstop short on their reminiscing mood, as they were soon followed by Regulus person.

"What did Potter... _Harry_ want?" asks when he sees them.

"Nothing." Sirius says quickly.

"Nothing." he says narrowing his eyes. "He risked getting caught by the Ministry for _nothing_." His hiss draws out menacingly, but Sirius who is the recipient of it is the most composed.

"It was to have a chat about his dad." says Remus. Regulus' frowns and gives him a sideways glance. "Apparently he felt into a pensive and saw one of Snape's memories."

"I wouldn't take much notice of them." Regulus dismisses it.

"James wasn't a bad person." says Sirius, at Remus or more like trying to convince himself. "But Snape got the worst out of him."

Regulus rolls his steely eyes, and scrunches up his nose as if he smelt something unpleasant.

"Yes." mutters Regulus. "_Saint Potter_." The tone is not unexpected; it is no secret that he never particularly liked James Potter. He is not one to hide these things after all, not even for the sake to guarantee himself Sirius' good graces. "I'll refrain from further comments." he says rather caustically.

He momentarily scans the work and parchments strewn on the table and makes a quick evaluation of the work there, and promptly marches through the door muttering some excuse or other the other two know very well to be just that.

Sirius is differently inclined towards that kind of work, of course. He prefers the kind that allows him to have wide berth of movement, but poring through parchments it is not a task that daunts him. And he likes it especially because it gives him something different to do. He plops himself on a chair and tugs to him some of the pile of parchments the guys from the auror force have summoned rather illegally on some suspected death eaters.

He'd been rather angry at first because letting him do anything at all had been met with some opposition, as if he'd been a mental invalid. They had been unwilling to bring work to him when no one else had the time he had for these thing. There were enchantments they hadn't been able to break. Scrolls they hadn't been able to translate. Potentially incriminating evidence they'd had not time to revise. Sirius has the skills to work with those, if they let him. It isn't charity. He's good at this work.

That's why WART2 forms don't accumulate dust in increasingly tall stacks after they are brought in for him to peruse. There are few others willing to waste time looking for financial traces of Death Eater movement if there is one perfectly good Order member that does it for them with a measure of success. He caught on that transference that gave them the heads-up on Selwyn being in it too. Right now Sirius has come across a rather peculiar report from the WITCH3 services on Igor Karkakoff, a pity now that he's dead.

"I never really understood what he did have against James." he muses aloud. "It was me the one who pranked him most of the times at Hogwarts, not James."

Remus shakes his head at him shortly and returns his eyes to the work previously forgottten. "There is no worse blind that he who won't see." he mutters. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get exactly what, pray tell?" answers Sirius, feigning an offended look.

"It is amazing how correctly you can read each other, without reaching correct interpretation." comments Remus. "He was jealous of James, Sirius."

"But there was no reason." says Sirius. "And it is twenty years past."

"No one says that a reason is needed to feel that way." is Remus' response. "James was like a brother to you, you've said so many times; I guess he might've felt like James was stealing his place."

"Nonsense." Sirius scoffs. "James was just a friend, in the end, he was still my brother. Not that he wanted the position at the time. Unfortunately, one does not do the kind of thing I did... for a _friend_ you don't speak to."

"Put yourself in his place Sirius, his older brother goes to Hogwarts, leaving him alone for the year. He spends the year wishing to see you again. But when you return, you are a different person, with new friends and new ideas. And all in all, those friends only draw you apart." Sirius shrugs, as if the gesture can dispel the notion. "And more every time, you spend your time with these friends, and set him aside. And not only that, but you also make him one of the favourites target of your pranks. After all he's your brother, and James is your friend, and every waking minute James takes more and more over his position as a brother. Of course that he's jealous. I think that he only wanted to get treated as he was before; he thinks that you are punishing him for being sorted into Slytherin. So he finds comfort in the ideals of his kin, telling himself that he doesn't care for you and that you are as much of an idiot as James."

Sirius looks at him with a raised eyebrow as he finishes his speech, looking more than a bit sceptical.

"Don't you have anything better to do than try to understand everyone, us in particular?" Sirius says wryly, partially succeeding in sounding as if he doesn't care. "You could've have been a shrink."

Remus understands that he is trying to change the issue, because he knows his messages seems to have come across at least; Sirius is not raging and raving after all.

"Yes, I know. Were it not because I have too many issues myself... should I start charging?"

"Bah! If you had to count all the hours you've spend trying to play the psychoanalyst with me," says Sirius. "you'd would never accept that check."

"Maybe you don't know," Remus returns. "maybe you'd be surprised."

"You don't accept five galleons for doing _my_ shopping, why should I begin to think that you would accept a check _that_ big?"

"I suppose you are right." he chuckles.

"I'm always right." he says.

"Yes, sure thing." says Remus smacking his friend's arm.

"I'm so intelligent that sometimes I don't understand a word I say." Sirius says with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You are so full of yourself…"

"I've been practicing quite assiduously."

"Of course." Lupin answers blandly.

"We are unaccountably cheeky of late." Sirius says. "Where's poor professor Lupin now, hmn? Dismissed him already?"

"I don't think he went anywhere." he answers good-naturedly. "It must be your fault. It must be I spend too much time in this house with you."

"Or too much time with Dora." says Sirius. "He is a pretty cheery thing, isn't she?"

Remus Lupin moves uncomfortably in his seat.

"I don't like what you are implying."

"You know perfectly well what I'm implying." says Sirius. "And if it isn't true, why be bothered by it?"

The baleful look on his friends face makes him think it is time to shut up before he's treated to a silent war for the remaining of the week, and it is after all only Tuesday. So he doesn't tell his friend that he's being stupid, or that what you plan does almost never come to pass. Life is, after all, what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. He knows he wouldn't listen.

* * *

1 Though the topic of religion has never come up in J. 's stories I work under the assumption that the wizarding world never accepted Christianity fully as a religion (until the XVIII century wizardry was still persecuted in Europe as the work of the Devil), and through their enforced isolation in the middle ages and the posterior elitism the elder pure-blooded families maintained modernized pagan Celtic practices.

2 Wizarding Accounting, Revenue and Tax Services forms.

3 Wizard's International Tactical Coordinating Headquarters.


	23. Chapter 22: You Can't Beat Them, Join Th

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two – If You Can't Beat Them, Join Them**

"Anything sweet should do. Yeah, I love anything remotely sweet." throws Tonks over her shoulders as she rummages around the kitchen looking for something to go with the bitter coffee. "Cake, cookies, chocolate… come out sweeties!"

Remus laughs good-naturedly at her efforts, and watches her pretty figure as she cheerfully prattles.

"Hmm." he idly but effectively stops her from tripping over his chair when she starts rummaging the cupboard just behind him. "It'd be nice."

"You know, Remus, when I was a kid my mum used to chase me away from the kitchen so I wouldn't steal muffins at my Grandma's."

The soft chuckle should have alerted them, and if not, the soft coughing sound should have, to the presence of another person about to interrupt them and bring them out of their little world. As the more subtle means to divert their attention from their blatant flirting fail rather spectacularly, well, he resorts to less subtle means, of course.

"Dora dear, I'm afraid I'd be eternally grateful if you would just consider stop making eyes at Remus and turned around." he says dryly and is particularly satisfied when she jumps around and turns to him looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Sirius doesn't like being ignored.

"I wasn't..." she splutters, and then frowns. "You are a sad, sad man Sirius Black."

"Specially if the only thing you can find to lift your spirits is accusing people of things that you are currently incapable of doing engaging in." Remus throws smoothly at him. "It cannot even be classified as living vicariously through someone else."

"Why? Is something that I said not exactly true?"

The few seconds of utter silence are all the answer needed and expected.

"Stop being your obnoxious self for five minutes and stop seeing double entendres and hidden meanings into every word we say for a spell if you don't mind." Lupin grinds out.

"I'd protest the obnoxious epithet, but I think this stain in my honour is not to be removed." and the flat tone to his response belied the flamboyant nature of the sentence. "Alas, you wound me, my good Sir."

"Don't be a party-popper Sirius." Tonks chimes in. "We were just having a break."

"Methkins, the lady doeth protest too much."

Her fuming glare was the only response and the conversation was wisely reconducted towards another saner path, when she said. "Ok, what do you want?"

"You left some things in the second floor bathroom, just so you know." he tells her.

"How do you know it's been me?" she asks peeved.

"You're the only one of the female persuasion staying over."

"Right." she mutters under her breath, and she mutters something that might be mildly threatening and disqualifying were it coming from anyone else's mouth.

"Now, Sirius, the _real_ reason would be nice." Lupin says pointedly.

"Ah, that might be more of a reason." he answers pleasantly.

Sirius acting pleasantly is usually enough to warn off anyone in a ten mile radius. Lupin looks at him expectantly, nonetheless, but Sirius remains silent and looks at him, a maddening grin stretched taut over his features.

"Si-ri-us." He stresses impatiently. "What do you want."

"Oh, nothing too bad. Just to recruit you for a thorough cleanup in the attic." Sirius says. "You know... this task we've all been eluding since forever?"

"I've got work to do." Remus tells him while leaning over the sink to deposit there the chinked coffee mug.

"No you don't." Sirius tells him, cutting off his retreat from the kitchen. "I checked."

"Hhm. Well, I'm not going to join cleanup either." he says as he pulls the Daily Prophet from under the big kettle.

"But of course you are, you've got nothing better to do." Sirius croons sweetly. "Besides I'm asking you... you might even find something interesting up there."

Remus has always said that Sirius has a grin that's absolutely unnerving, and it hasn't changed one bit in the almost twenty years that he's known him. "Sorry but no, _I'm afraid I'll have to respectfully decline_." says Remus wryly. "There's too much silver running amok in this house."

"I'm not asking you to clean the silverware Remus." Sirius says sharply.

"No." Remus says placidly. "But I'm still not doing it."

"You're no fun, you know that?"

Lupin doesn't even glance up from his Morning Prophet.

"Silver poisoning isn't a good look on me." He deadpans, flipping another page forward.

"Nothing's a good look on you. You ever wonder why I hide your ties?" he asks flipping his friend's admittedly horrid maroon tie with one hand.

Lupin glares at him, and the offense over his favorite tie promises not to go unpunished. Sirius has a petulant look about him. Remus has to concede that Sirius' temper-tantrums are amusing... well, the more trivial ones are at least, but his sulks can be rather tiresome. Still, they stare in silence for a while, until clanging and footsteps above make them look upwards, cringing reflexively. Surprisingly enough there is no shouting to be heard.

Molly Weasley appears immediately after and looks at both men, standing close face to face with a questioning face and then shakes her head in a fashion very similar to what she would were they her sons. Sirius looks at her fixedly, and blatantly squints after a few moments. Molly Weasley returns his stare and squints back.

"Molly... You don't have any moral objection to lending us a hand with the attic," Sirius says, dead serious. "Do you?"

Molly just looks first one and then the other, and cautiously says. "No. Of course not."

::::::::::::::

The attic is a vast room that stretches over an important part of the building, with low ceilings and filled with old trinkets, and broken and useless knick-knacks. Things clutter there, and seem to gain a life of their own. Even without the addition of any of the personal belongings Sirius has removed from the habitable floors below, it is still full of trunks filled to the brim of belongings of ancestors long gone, and old furniture that possibly was in not such a bad shape when it was replaced and stored.

Sirius' fingers itch to cast a vanishing spell on it all and be rid of it. He knows though, the responsible thing would be to go make sure he does not dispose of anything essential. Or too valuable either. Instead they simply end up moving things around and conjuring thick clouds of dust. Properly cleaning as Regulus and Mrs Weasley understand it. They don't throw anything away today; they just remove layers and layers of magically adhered dust.

It is Molly who is cleaning the far corner of the attic, hidden from view by the bulk of a full body mirror that's half covered with cobwebs and has a large crack right in the middle, when she runs into another covered object, of the general variety in the room: old, dusty, forgotten and cloth covered. She pays it no mind until she hears rattling and the swish of cloth.

She turns around and comes face to face with the portrait of a middle-aged man with dark hair and pale features wearing a monocle. The man wrinkles his nose as if he's smelled something foul, and immediately after a suffocated sneeze and a cough follow, the portrait raises a hand to dispel the dust.

"Merlin! This place is more horribly dusty than even I remember." It comments, finally, after tucking a fine handkerchief back into the breast pocket of his tunic. Finally, he seems to take notice of the plump read-haired witch standing two steps away. "Oh, good morning madam."

The flamboyant man says it with a polite nod of his head, and Mrs Weasley is convinced that, was he wearing a hat he'd uncover his head. His eyes though, have a kind of amused glint, and he seems to be enthused about having someone to talk to. She might be in shock about having found a polite portrait in this house.

"Sirius! I thing you should come." she calls out.

"What's wrong Molly?" asks the man absentmindedly, but with his best let's-hope-there-is-a good-reason kind of look. She points at the portrait, and as it is to be expected purses her lips at him. He turns to the picture and crossly, he stares.

"Hello my boy!" says the portrait blandly. A tired smile spreads across Sirius' face, and shakes his head at the misplaced appellative. A resigned sigh escapes him.

"Good morning Uncle Alphard." he says, and takes the chance to straighten up some old chandelier that has toppled over. "It's good to see you, you haven't changed at all." It is usual for Sirius to revert to using a sort of humour that is mostly obscure, but which in truth is directly Black.

"Besides the glaring fact that one is dead, no I don't think I have." Alphard answers matter-of-factly, a smile curling by the corners of his lips. "You on the other hand look... err... definitely different."

"That's very kind of you." he deadpans, and Uncle Alphard's monocle quivers in amusement. "How come you are up here? I thought you'd be up in Norfolk."

_Where you should be_. It was his rightful place as the heir and master of a minor branch of the Black Family.

"Your mother, that is to say, my sister, thought this was the rightful place for me." Sirius looks between annoyed and amused with his uncle and his perpetual need to bring his mother up into any given conversation. To top it all there is this need, in this family at least, to speak about such things as if they were meant to be normal, or inconsequential, or even amusing. Then one feels bad for verbally expressing his resentment, and Merlin, it is frustrating.

"Oh, where have my manners gone." says Sirius nonetheless, perpetuating this annoying trend, turning to Mrs Weasley. "Molly this is Alphard Black, my uncle. Uncle, this is Molly Weasley."

"A pleasure." says the portrait blinking through its thick monocle. Molly Weasley nods stiffly, as if she doesn't quite know where she fits in this bizarre conversation between a man half-mad and a talking portrait. That the portrait talks, is the least of her problems. "And your manners have always taken temporarily leaves now and then. They'll come back."

And Alphard Black knows quite a bit about dealing with people who regularly lose their manners, their money, their temper, their sense of humour, and even on occasion, their sanity. He's seen it all. Manners are something that is liable to come back.

"You know, talking alone is the first sign of madness?" Regulus' voice comes behind a mound of trunks by the other side of the attic. Sirius face of annoyance resurfaces quite readily.

"I'm not talking alone, its Uncle Alphard!" he quite viciously shouts back Sirius.

"Seeing visions is the second sign of madness! A dead giveaway!" Sirius coughs to suppress a laugh.

"That'd be your other nephew. He thinks himself smart... You imbecile!" calls out over the clouds of dust swirling in the closed and cramped space of the attic. "Why don't you get your arse here and see it for yourself!"

Regulus had quite obviously already been dragging himself there because he appears seconds later with a smug grin. "It appears I have some company in my madness." Sirius says with healthy dose of snark, as soon as his brother's eyes land on the small portrait.

"Ah!" the portrait says frowning slightly. "Now, one can never believe everything that is told, I see. What with that whole lot of ruckus sometime ago about you being dead, a great deal of nonsense, I tell you... one would think people wouldn't spread lies like that. But it is too much to ask not to confuse an old man. It is either that, or there is the possibility of these weeds not being quite as tame as I thought." he says shaking his pipe worriedly.

"Your weed was alright." reassures him the youngest Black wearily, praying that the ground might open and swallow him.

"Unfortunately." mutters Sirius under his breath.

"I didn't come up here to be insulted, Sirius." Regulus quips.

"No? And where do you usually go?" says Sirius. Regulus' glare could have frozen the seas in midsummer.

"Run! Put yourselves under cover!" the portrait suddenly wailed. "Mrs Weasley, go find a parapet! Someone cover meeeee!"

In the following silence you could have heard a pin drop. And everyone stands still; Molly is startled so badly she could've set the canvas on fire. Sirius is the first to turn round and stare down at the portrait as he would a naughty child. Portraits are annoying as a rule, a caricaturized version of the portrayed person, exaggerating their personalities quite a bit and blowing them out of proportion. He'd never previously stopped to think how annoying an Uncle Alphard portrait might be.

"Were you saying?"

"Last time a conversation went down that course hexes flew by. I almost lost an ear." Alphard justifies himself calmly.

"I'd have you know I've been almost twenty years without hexing him." says Sirius condescendingly.

"Yes, the twenty years you haven't seen me." sniffs Regulus.

"Regulus…" if the warning didn't give him the right idea, the growl sure did.

"Yes. _Go do something useful_. Yes Sir."

"_Regulus_…"

"I'm on my way!"

"Are you two already finished, or was this only the first act?" Sirius sighs annoyed and closes the drapes over the canvas effectively shutting it up.

::::::::::::::

Sirius has very vivid memories of his childhood; maybe that's why he detests it so much. But even he has to recognise that it wasn't all bad. No, it was more about that never-ending feeling of loneliness, of abandon and of oppressing shadow. Alphard had been a support. He had been his favourite uncle and had looked after them all. He was the most human adult that Sirius around them while they were still young. That didn't mean he was kindness itself, or that he spoiled them rotten. But one had to give him credit, he was a master of doing whatever he pleased while only mildly annoying everyone.

He mostly had liked being alone. He could only take company in small doses, and of his various relatives the children were the ones who annoyed them the least. His sister thought him crazy, so did his brother. And it was better not to speak about his brother-in-law. They didn't understand the appeal of quiet solitude; of not having to constantly lie. Because alone you only could only lie to yourself, and what was the point in that?

He preferred to watch amusedly as they battled with trifling problems and walked around wrapped up in their pureblood philosophy nonsense. They tried so hard to emphasise they were best than everyone else. But truthfully he could only stomach so much of their talk for so long. Besides which, his seclusion meant that his nieces and nephews saw him as an enigma, and they were naturally curious. When holiday season rolled around it was inevitably Uncle Alphard who, if any, was left to take them out like Diagon alley, or simply walking somewhere. Since he was unmarried, it was generally assumed that he had the most of free time of them all.

Cygnus and Druella could hardly be bothered, because they were simply not the kind of people who'd ever think about even their own children. Andromeda had liked it. Orion's work at the head of the family had reached life-consuming levels when he was thirty-five and Arcturus Black had fallen ill and died. It had never abated. The idea of Druella wrestling her daughters into submission was laughable. And the idea of Walburga growing an extra set of eyes watching a couple of overexcited children was too. It would have given them both severe headaches, and anyway, nobody wished for that. That's why Alphard'd done it; and though he complained audibly later, he'd almost liked it.

Yes, he'd been a paragon of all things good compared to the likes of the rest of his relatives; thinks Sirius coming down the stairs with the old canvas tucked under his right arm. He was an improvement coming from his father, a saint compared to uncle Cygnus and his wife, and there were no words in Sirius' vocabulary to describe how he measured up against Walburga Black. The only thing needed to express the total incompetency of his uncle Cygnus as a father, and the thousand ways a harpy can pass off as a human being, is Bellatrix (Andromeda was clearly a freak accident of nature). Walburga had clearly lost her touch with reality long before Sirius could remember; causing unmentionable amounts of pain to everyone around, including herself.

Orion Black though, he'd been something else. You could almost feel sorry for him. He had been brought up among intolerance and had been indoctrinated in all that pureblood nonsense, almost lovingly. Not so strongly that his prejudice became histrionic like his wife's but unmovable and deep. He was arrogant and disdainful of those he considered to be below him, but he wasn't cruel. Not overly so. Not if it was not convenient. The Lestranges were cruel in the full sense of the word. They hated those who they considered to be beneath them, they wanted them off the face of this earth. Orion Black didn't hate people without a very good reason, he just ignored them. While in the beginning of these tumultuous times many believed in ridding the wizarding world from all non-purebloods by any possible means; Orion Black only wanted them not to interfere with magic folk, to stay away from his world; to have trouble and dishonour as far away from his family as he could make it. But he was still a bigot and Sirius will never be comfortable with that truth. The most disturbing thing about the whole bussiness; is that he _almost_ understands him. He'd been so busy all the time, administering a vast fortune so both his brothers-in-law could live with their arms crossed because it was his duty. He'd hardly had time for his children while they were growing up, and never time enough to try straightening up his eldest son later either. He'd patted them over the head when they were little and later spoke quietly of how disappointed he was.

Contradictorily, he'd allowed that small corner of light in their lives by which they've both broken free. He insisted in the loftiest education possible; they've studied hard throughout their childhood, and had the best possible tutors. But he had never actively enforced social prejudice, because erroneously he probably thought they'd pick it up. Instead, Sirius had learnt to think for himself. Instead, Regulus had learnt that there was no such a thing as an absolute truth.

Sirius sighs and shakes himself from his thoughts, inwardly scolding himself for allowing his thoughts to stray that far away, and returns them to the logistics of moving a portrait of his late Uncle Alphard to some available space, probably some small niche in the library won't be a bad idea. Sirius really doesn't have anything against most portraits; he even tolerates his father's in the study fairly well; neither of them speaks much; that's why sometimes his thoughts stray in such disturbing mental pathways. It is mostly the screeching abomination in the entry Hall that makes him reel. Down in the kitchen he leaves the small portrait on the table carefully and proceeds to unwrap it with care not to tear it. The painted face of Uncle Alphard blinks, trying to get used to the sudden bright light.

"Oh Almighty Merlin… this house has really gone downwards." he says looking around, but he doesn't sound particularly scandalized. "What's the house-elf been doing?"

"Regulus killed him." he grunts.

"It was an accident... kind of." says Regulus' annoying voice. And Sirius today, feels particularly annoyed that he has to be followed everywhere.

"Your well of excuses is never-ending." Sirius tells him impatiently. "Clearly you never thought what a pain cleaning this would be."

"And you clearly have not given enough consideration as to how having Kreacher around would be like." Regulus tells him with a meaningful glance, and takes up some cleaning product to soak a rag and start polishing the frame, about which Alphard flinches and scuttles to the other side of the canvas.

"Really, must you distract me so while I'm busy being unreasonable?" Sirius flippantly answers his brother.

Regulus finds that his brother does not look so fearsome anymore, not how he used to those first days in Grimmauld Place. There is a smile dancing around his lips that makes him want to smile in return. But there is no merriment in his gaze, which is too narrow, too detached to exude any sort of happiness. Regulus senses that none of this has anything to do with him. So he is amenable to give him something to argue over.

"I'm not in the right frame of mind to try and understand your language." he says instead. "Usually it is entertaining, but on more than one occasion it can be annoying. And it causes migraine."

Regulus can swear that Sirius is containing himself from doing something as spectacularly childish as poking his tongue out at him, or giving him a rude had gesture. Which in Molly Weasley's presence, might lead to more trouble that it is worth. He thinks him childish enough without actually _acting_ like a child.

In fact while they summarily make sure the frame is in an adequate shape, Molly Weasley disappears back to wherever she comes from every day. But even if it doesn't take them long, Alphard seems to get bored pretty easily. A testament to the flighty personality of the portrayed, who was never by any means, one to love long stretches of silence. He starts rattling on about old stories about his journeys around the world, and a bizarre tale of two pygmies and a diricawl.

After a while Regulus grabs a chair, drags it in front of the portrait and sits, listening in, making surprised faces in all the appropriate places and showing obscene amounts of interest. Sirius starts to get frankly annoyed that he has to continue behaving as the older sobling, as apparently long periods without sun revert Regulus to a five-year-old.

"It'd be convincing if you hadn't heard them a thousand times." he quips.

"They are interesting." Regulus retorts with a shrug. Alphard is so immersed in his own story that he does not seem to hear them.

"You behave like a three year-old brat." says Sirius gruffly.

"Do not behave as if you were never one, Sirius." tells him the condescending voice of his deceased uncle, while he is picking up the debris generated by the impromptu restoration of the old frame.

"Was I?"

"Ah, but I remember this one time when, during a New Years' eve..."

"...Sirius went into the mudroom and switched the heads of those walking sticks from father's guests." says Regulus smiling widely at Sirius' discomfort. "You placed the two-headed cobra of Abraxas Malfoy's stick onto Travers' Senior's, and Travers' eagletop on Rosiers', then you went on and placed Rosiers' golden unicorn on Malfoy's.

"And if it don't recall badly, you were right beside me, changing them with me."

"Eeh... yes?"

"Take up the portrait and find him a place, I'm done here. I've got Order business to sort through."

::::::::::::::

Regulus could swear something was going to go very wrong the moment Sirius' angry eyes landed on him holding onto a smouldering cigarette right beside the kitchen countertop. He slowly blew up the smoke through his nose, realising too late how it might be interpreted as some kind of defiance. Although, in hindsight, that might just make his death more sudden and less painful.

Sirius' sharp eyes went summarily from his cigarette to his face, and then he crossed his arms. He made that strange sound he did when someone smoked around him, as if he was containing his breath to breath in the least amount of smoke possible. Then he very slowly seemed to scan him with thorough attention to detail from head to toe.

Regulus truly should have put out the cigarette when Sirius started advancing towards him. Sirius did it for him anyways.

"I guess you are aware... that no matter what other people think, I am not stupid." Regulus let that rethoric question go unanswered. "And that as an intelligent person, your flimsy efforts to hide that you are smoking, are transparent at best." Regulus thought the best policy was silence. "If you ever thought it might work, you just killed any remaining hopes to ever prove your already compromised intelligence." Sirius' voice remained calm; which just never bode well. An angry raving Sirius is bad enough. An angry in control Sirius just plain hurts. "If you can call a person who deliberately indulges in a health-hazarding vice, even remotely intelligent." Sirius grounds in.

Sirius certainly knows how to sound intimidating. He knows how to separate his words just so. The right amount of scorn to show. Just how close you have to come to loom over the person so they just feel so very little. Regulus wholeheartedly hates when Sirius looms in his personal space, his contempt mere inches from his face.

"_That_, is my problem." he answers petulantly. And just for a moment he has the wild thought that Sirius might physically hit him.

"You think so?" Regulus thinks answering superfluous in the face of so much displeasure. "You must have Uncle Alphard present, after him popping up like this." Sirius tells him. "A very stupid portrait if you ask me. You know why he is a portrait I guess. This is when you answer: Yes, Sirius, he's a portrait because..." the sweeping arch of a hand asked for an answer.

"Dead." Regulus ground out.

"Yes, that's right. Well, in case that you, who were here while I wasn't, don't remember; he died because of an ugly growth in his lungs. And that was because he smoked like a chimney." Sirius grabbed him rather roughly by the back of his neck, and didn't quite allow him to avert his gaze. "Now, while it is true that you can kill yourself at your leisure. It is too modest to assume you actions have no consequence over anyone else whatsoever. Smoke is gas, and therefore cannot be contained. Every time you lit up, someone inhales it along with you." he releases him. "I thought your days of thoughtlessly killing other people were done with."

Sirius cocks his head at him, considering what he's just said. Regulus just feels like he's been kicked in someplace sensitive.

"If you want to kill yourself drink arsenic." he tells him coldly.

It all just speaks volumes of how cross he already was when he found him in the kitchen.

"I intend to live as long as nobody else kills me first. Consequently I have no intention to keep inhaling your poisonous fumes." he spats. "Get another vice."

Regulus wonders how is it possible to feel guilty when you've been just manhandled by a positively noxious brother.

::::::::::::::

"It turned out rather well, didn't it?" Regulus says stepping back to look at the nook in the library that now sports the new portrait.

Sirius grunts in response.

"Pity is couldn't go hang in the Hall instead of mother." he growls.

"Why not hang me there then?" says Alphard cheerfully, only you immediately flinch at how the expression might be interpreted.

"Do you want to get a perpetual migraine?" Regulus asks. "She's still as nice as always."

"I was meaning instead of her." It says. "I find, I am fond of petty revenge."

"Then the answer is obvious." Regulus sneers. "She's stuck herself to the wall."

"Speaking of which…" says Sirius. "Wouldn't you, uncle, know by any chance, how to remove her lovely painting from our less lovely wall?"

"Is the question some kind of trap? A hidden meaning perhaps?" Asks Uncle Alphard clearly annoyed. "No? Let me see. Mmm… throwing down the wall?"

The dead stare he receives is measure enough of how unamusing he's being.

"She is stuck to the wall, isn't she? Then what exactly do you think you can do…"

Sirius snaps his fingers, and suddenly they all shut up. He waves his finger, and a wicked grin spreads over his face. Like when he's just had some outrageous idea. The he just disappears, quick like lightning.

"He might be about to demolish the hall, you know."

"If he does, it's your fault."

But the hall is still standing come morning. Only a large tearing of the wallpaper is the only decoration on the wall at the foot of the stairs. The paper has been torn off from the wall and the old stonework can be seen through it and the crumbling plaster.

Regulus still feels like hitting his head on the wall, repeatedly. How did nobody think of that before? Actually it was so simple it was stupid.

"She permanently stuck herself to the wallpaper, no to the wall itself." Sirius had said over scrambled eggs and scalding coffee. All I had to do was remove that horrid wallpaper, and the painting was gone, just like that.

Sirius snaps his fingers, and his underlying good humour is contagious.

Whatever doesn't occur to Sirius. Only that now the house needs the walls done even more urgently. As if the peeling paper wasn't a problem before. He also wonders if Sirius has removed the pictures from his bedroom wall too, to preserve them better if nothing else. He might've, now that there is no mother to spite.


	24. Chapter 23: The Battle Of The Ministry

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three – The Battle Of The Ministry**

_4th June 1996, Grimmauld Place n.12, London_

The long, cold kitchen of Grimmauld place is in utter silence. There is nobody there, not a single soul to break the deafening stillness of the air. It is a wet damp evening for this late in the year. The fire is lit nonetheless, but everybody seems to have fled the warmth of its nearness.

All of sudden, the flames of the fireplace turn green and a head appears in the fireplace. Harry's hair looks even more messed up than usual; his glasses are askew. He looks around frantically, trying to find something, someone.

"Sirius!" he shouts, "Sirius! Are you there?!"

His voice echoes thought the room, but there is no answer. Then he hears a small scuffing sound to the right of the fireplace.

"Who's there?" calls out nervously. "Sirius?" but then a small mouse runs next to the fireplace to the nearest closet. So that is it, that's where the sound came from. "Sirius!"

He is about to yell again, but before has the chance, he scrunches up his face in pain and his head disappears from the kitchen fireplace. At that precise moment, Sirius and Regulus come down the main staircase, to the hall. Sirius stops on his tracks, with slight frown.

"Didn't you hear something?" he asks.

"No." says Regulus earnestly. Sirius starts walking again.

"It must've been my imagination." he says, dismissing it as a fancy of his overactive and idle mind.

::::::::::::::

"I'll miss her shrieks." Regulus says sarcastically over a glass of firewhysky, Sirius looks at him speculatively.

"Truly?"

"Truly." he says solemnly.

"But of course. Me too. Can't you see how hard I am crying?"

"I think I saw a tear slide across your cheek."

"Sure you did." he shrugs. "No kidding, this is too quiet. Although _nothing_ could ever make me miss that horrible hag."

"Who was your mother." said Regulus.

"No matter. She was also a hag." answers Sirius.

"A normal human being should have problems with insulting her; come on..."

The fire in the kitchen's fireplace turns vibrant green and cracks ominously. In no time Lupin stumbles out of the stone-craved fireplace with an alarmed look on his face.

"Forgot something?" Sirius says as Remus removes the dust from his frayed robes. Right then and there, the flames turn green again and Tonks appears, followed closely by Kingsley and Mad-Eye Moody.

"What's wrong?" asks the younger Black.

"There's really no time to explain." says Moody, who is already tearing away through the door. "Snape sent a warning, fifteen minutes ago."

"Something's wrong with Harry." Kingsley supplies. "He's left the school."

"We suspect Harry's in the Department of Mysteries, with five other students." explains Remus. "We just got the news; the Death Eaters must've ambushed them." Sirius face turns unreadable. "At least we should check."

"But how on earth...?" Regulus looks baffled. "Why?!"

"We don't know." Says Tonks.

"But let's not forget this is Voldemort." says Lupin.

In the entry hall Mad-Eye starts unlocking the door with diligent expertise.

"Were are the others?" says Sirius as he grabs a cloak and throws it over his shoulders

"Couldn't find anyone else." Shacklebolt answers. "Are you coming?"

He says it with doubt in his eyes, and the entire hall pauses a moment to look at him.

"Of course I am." he says matter-of-factly. Sirius himself is surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "You cannot go the four of you alone. It'd be suicide."

"But Dumbledore said..."

"I am going." he says firmly.

Moody seems to accept it as a crude necessity to prevent a greater evil, and turns to tinkering with the front door. Sirius sees out of the corner of his eye, Regulus grabbing a cloak himself.

"Are you coming?" he asks, half-proud half-worried, but sounding impatient all the way.

"What'd you think?" He says. "I can do math too. That people hunt in packs." Sirius smiles at him, that sideways grin that always appears at the worst possible moment.

In the street the evening breeze sweeps through his hair and he turns his face instinctively towards it breathing in deeply. It is far less pleasant than he remembers. It blows hot and cold both, at the same time. The six figures disappear from Grimmauld Place with several pops.

On the street over the Ministry of Magic, six figures appear from thin air. They run towards a back alley around a Muggle Bank. Lights flash from a car that zooms past, the honking can be heard from afar. Right in front of the green wall, Sirius says:

"I just hope you got your passes." Shacklebolt, comes from behind him and drags him through it.

A void sucks them in, and they spin around in darkness for a few more seconds until they emerge into a pile of soot in an unlit fireplace. In the darkness of the vast hall, the far faint light of a _lumos_ is a glittering thousand points on the golden fireplaces. The black floor shines even in the dark, and the golden fountain to magical brotherhood fills the Atrium with dripping water sound. There is no sign that the Death Eaters ever passed through here, although, unfortunately it doesn't make it impossible.

"This way." whispers Shacklebolt, as he starts running down the hall.

The other five sprint off after him. They pass the fountain and head towards the empty and deserted desks of the watchwizards. Sirius feels panic start to rise up inside him. The need to know that Harry is alright; that he hasn't failed him twice in a row... he'd never forgive himself if Harry died. But he forces his mind away from those same panicky thoughts and clamps firmly over his anxiety.

They keep running as if they have Voldemort himself on their heels, their footsteps echoing through the Atrium. They pass through the old golden gates, to the lifts. Moody presses the nearest 'down' button and a lift clatters into sight almost immediately, but even then it isn't fast enough that he doesn't continue hitting it until the doors have opened. The golden grilles slide apart with a great, echoing clanking sound and they dash inside. Kingsley stabs the number nine button with fury. Then the grilles close with a bang and the lift begins to descend, jangling and rattling. They shift uneasily, breathing loud, palms sweating. It has been a long time. The trip downwards seems to take forever. The lift is really noisy, and they have the impression that it alone will draw attention towards them.

When the lift halts, the cool female voice is largely ignored as she announces the Department of Mysteries and the grilles slid open. They step out into the corridor where nothing is moving but the nearest torches, flickering from the rush of air from the lift.

"Faster." Sirius hisses at Moody, as he slows down as his right knee gives a sideways jerk. There is only an answering grunt.

The plain black door opens for them and swings open, leading to a large, circular room. Everything in there is black including the floor and ceiling; identical, unmarked, handle-less black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burn blue; their cool, shimmering light reflects in the shining marble floor to make it look as though there is dark water underfoot.

"Don't close the door." indicates Moody, "it's the only reliable source of light."

Lupin, who enters the last, mutters something and the door remains stuck in its place.

"Which door it is?" asks Regulus disquieted. "They're all the same."

"I have no idea." says Shacklebolt.

"This one's certainly not." says Tonks as she flashes the light of her wand the big cross on a random door.

"It doesn't matter where they entered." complains Moody. "They could be anywhere, this department is circular."

Sirius is getting really impatient. But his acidic response is detained by another, not-too-pleased voice.

"This is a complete waste of time." says Regulus. "There's no telling where they are, then."

"_Then_, we'll have to try." snaps Sirius as he heads towards a random door and is about to open it; but Lupin stops him none-too-gently with a hand on his upper arm."

"Wait, damnit!" he calls; his whole body in tension. "I can hear voices."

His head is cocked to one side, brow furrowed in concentration, his nostrils flare, as if he's subconsciously sniffing something.

"There's a lot of people down there." he points with a jerk of his head. Lupin's senses, if anything, are sharp close to the full moon or not.

The door bursts open in front of them and immediately an almost overwhelming wave of noise rushes over them: shouts and hisses, there is banging somewhere on the level below. The amphitheatre room has the tiers and stairs descending down from where they are, right on the top, to the circular middle of the room, where a light shines eerily, illuminating an old archway with ratty curtains. Just in front, dark shadows circle around two small figures, Harry and another boy Sirius doesn't immediately identify.

They rush downstairs, bounding over the tiers; dodging the first flying curses, and he sees with satisfaction as their focus of attention is shifted from the struggling teenagers to the immediate threat of the Order.

And that is quite the last rational though he has, because he succumbs to the battle rage. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, his blood pumps in his ears like a deafening drum. Fear and doubt leave his body as soon as he falls into the familiar rhythm of the fight. His fingers twitch in impatience even before he casts the first hex, but his hands are dry and he hasn't felt more alive in years. He feels the wild untamed magic course through his body, rich and pulsating, and the spells and hexes roll seamlessly through his mind, while his whole being joyfully participates of the ancient dance of survival, the steps he knows so well.

The room blurs around himself except for the point in which he fixes his eyes; but he automatically keeps an eye on the rest of the party. He sees Malfoy try to dodge a stunning spell from Tonks, that misses by half an inch and gives Harry the opportunity to disappear. The rain of spells upon them makes the Death Eaters struggle to cover and try to engage in closer proximity, where Unforgivables are more effective because dodging becomes more difficult and costly for a dueller. Darting bodies, flashes of light become the measure by which a man lives or dies.

The masked Death Eater he's been engaging from afar runs straight into Moody, who relives him of his charge. Detritus coming from a wall nicks him just behind his ear. His hand is automatically there and his fingers come out streaked with blood, he sees in a haze. He sees the scorches the hexes leave on the floor around him and spares a moment to cast a full-body shielding spell against the chips of wall flying round.

He turns his attention to his closer quarters and takes on a Death Eater that tries to get a hex past Lupin's defences. He intercepts it, and steps into the fray again, in a position sure enough to impede the advance of the Death Eater halfway up the amphitheatre.

He feels himself dodge and aim, duck and spring sideways, and though it is his heart beating madly, he feels detached, he has the same sensation as if he was watching himself fight from outside of his own body. He lets his body work on its own.

He recognizes the heavy steps and the clumsy pivoting of the right leg. Lestrange, the older one, is a heavy fighter. He isn't quick, he isn't neat. In fact he relays more heavily on the sheer power behind his spellwork than on any agility of mind or body. As such, it is capital that Sirius keeps moving and confuses him the sooner the better. Rodolphus Lestrange is the very impersonation of magical brute force. Sirius knows better. Economy is always the best policy. He ducks down and rolls around, satisfied that his opponent missed him. Nonetheless, his new position puts him in sight of Harry's plight, caught by the neck by a goon; who, in closer inspection appears to be MacNair... if judging by sheer bulk.

With a last glance backwards he throws himself forward and his hex flies very close to Lestrange's face. So close, that he knows he'll have sensed the scorching heat of it passing by. He then ducks so he is on the other side and can keep an eye on Harry's situation some fifteen feet away. In a hurry, he sends a shower of hexes his way to force him backwards. No one seems in any condition to notice the problem they have at the moment; Tonks, still halfway up the tiered seats, is firing spells down at Bellatrix, Shacklebolt is fighting two Death Eaters at once and has his hands full, and Moody and Regulus, are busy with their respective Death Eaters on the far end; nobody seems to realise that Harry might be dying.

Sirius finds himself scrambling and jumping over the tiers; and successfully dodging some curses that could have made him a number. He relishes finding, that he still knows how to predict, down to the last spell, which curse is going to fly his way. They pass Harry, his Death Eater, and the other struggling teenager. But Lestrange, too is relentless, and fires viciously. But his resilience angers the Death Eater, who stops paying much attention to anything but Sirius. Until a stray hex passes rather too close and makes him take a step backwards.

Sirius throws another quick succession of hexes, one of them makes a deep cut on Lestrange's wand arm, an _anapneo_ curse hits him square on the chest, Lestrange falls to his knees clutching his throat, and Sirius puts him out of his misery shooting a stunning spell to the back of his neck, thinking, quite viciously, that it is sure to give him at least a good headache.

He bolts past his fallen opponent towards Harry and the fighting up there. Nearby there is the fallen bulk of MacNair with a bleeding eye that he can see, his mask has fallen away. Mad-Eye is laying on his side, bleeding from the head, his eye-socket empty; his magical eye, long lost. His attacker is now bearing down upon Harry and the other boy: Dolohov, mask-less, his long pale face twisted with glee.

"_Tarantallegra_!" Dolohov shouts, at the boy with an injured nose, whose legs go immediately into a kind of frenzied tap-dance, unbalancing him and causing him to fall to the floor again. Sirius can't quite believe that Dolohov would lower himself to make a third-grade curse on any victim. "Now, Potter…"

"_Protego"_ he sees a small shield appear as the slashing motion of Dolohov's wand comes down, but he also sees Harry fall backwards by the force of the spell's aftershocks.

He has a hex on the tip of his tongue, but before risking hitting Harry despite the almost clear shot, he gives one sprint and hurtles out of what must've appeared nowhere, rams Dolohov with his shoulder and sends him flying out of the way due to his larger frame. Dolohov turns on him from the floor immediately. The bastard away from Harry, he takes care to make sure he stays that way, and doesn't waver to engage him this time.

Their wands flashing, sparks flying from their wand-tips Dolohov draws back his wand to make the distinctive slashing movement of the _sectumsempra_. He prepares to duck at the appropriate moment when a freezing spell hits Dolohov neatly, one he surely hasn't fired. Dolohov's arms and legs snap together and he keels over backwards, landing with a crash on his back. He casts his eyes backwards and sees Harry with his wand raised.

"Nice one!" he shouts, he ducks down too, with the other boy who now reminds him terribly of Alice Longbottom, and forces Harry's head down as a pair of Stunning Spells flow towards them. "Now I want you to get out of…"

They both duck again; a jet of green light has narrowly missed Sirius. Across the room Tonks falls from halfway up the stone steps, her limp form toppling from stone seat to stone seat and Bellatrix, triumphant, runs back towards the rest of combatants.

"Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville and run!" Sirius yells and dashes to meet Bellatrix.

He dashes past Kingsley and the pockmarked and no longer masked Rookwood; he dodges another jet of green light, and throws a stunning spell in Rookwood's general direction. From the corner of his eyes, he sees, past Remus and his entanglement with Rabastan Lestrange, how Regulus sends his Death Eater to the stone benches, hitting the floor with a crack.

Sirius and Bellatrix meet halfway like two great rolling waves, two great forces of nature crashing in a roar of thunder. It has always been like this for them: he is the tall tower that proudly withstands her stormy nature; he's the stony face of the cliff against which her waves of fury crash; she is determined to bring him down, and he is determined to _never_ give in. He could, rationally speaking, have left the natural evolving of the battle take her to someone else. He could have locked himself in a duel with anyone else, ignored her. But he knows that from all left he is the only person ever to have her bite the dust. It is his due.

Duelling with her takes his whole attention; he soon pays attention to the comings and goings of the fray only superficially. Instead he fights, and he puts his whole soul into it.

He sees Malfoys flaxen hair go down for a moment, and sees Regulus roll and duck awkwardly in the face of a close call before engaging in another fight, with Remus' ex-dance partner. Remus duels Malfoy instead, curses fly everywhere; their wands are nothing more than a blur. On the other end of the room, Regulus finally knocks Rabastan Lestrange out, which he finishes with a sound kick in the ribs.

Sirius feels like he's stepped in the eye of the hurricane. Like two hellions, they snap, and curse and tear away at each other, with every intention of creating great damage. Cloaks and robes swirl around them; and soon they become an annoyance. Impatiently, Sirius lets loose his cloak from his neck, which falls away; and as he feels the weight come off his shoulders he scowls at his opponent.

"_DUMBLEDORE!"_

The shout resounds through the room. But Dumbledore is already at the foot of the steps when the Death Eaters nearest realises he is there and yells to the others. One of the Death Eaters runs for it, scrabbling like a monkey up the stone steps opposite. Dumbledore's spell pulls him back as easily and effortlessly as though he's hooked him with an invisible line. The fierce, ongoing battle slows down to a stop for a moment; only one pair is still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival.

Sirius ducks Bellatrix's jet of red light, after another round of useless spells and hexes, he is starting to get annoyed. He doesn't like to be toyed with. He whips his head backwards to remove his hair from his face, and he laughs at her. He taunts her.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" he yells, his voice echoing around the cavernous room; and for the first time he notes that everyone else is silent.

To Regulus the scene seems to unfold in slow-motion. He sees Bellatrix's face, her fury; he sees the trajectory of the curse, and then he sees the stone archway behind.

"Sirius!" he doesn't even recognize his own voice, it is so hoarse. "The Arch!"

Sirius hears. On some level his mind registers the warning; he throws caution to the wind and lurches to his left throwing himself out from the elevated platform. He hits the floor, and puts out his hand to stop the fall. He manages to break his landing with a sickening crunch of his left wrist. Over him the brilliant red stunning charm hits the archway. Rolling down a couple stone steps his wand rolls away from his loosened grip. He sees her running with mad glee in her face, towards him, with her wand raised.

He sees the violently purple hex almost as soon as she speaks it. And he raises his injured arm over his face, over his torso in a protective gesture. Fury, fear... he isn't exactly sure what it is. But in the moment the hex makes contact with his elbow a white shield of light appears over his upper body. The curse tears at his forearm with a slashing, burning pain; but the curse pretty much rebounds from him and strikes the stone tier behind him. Detritus and marble fragments rain on him and one particularly big stone cusses him on the head. He himself hears the sickening crunch, and after, everything goes black.

::::::::::::::

His hearing is the first of his senses to come back. He blinks, and squints at the painful brightness of a _lumos_ in front of his face. He waves it away, as his awareness returns quickly. He brings a hand to the side of his head. Blood stains his sleeve, and a burning pain pierces his flesh. His whole body is sore from the fall, but his arm is hurting more than the sum of all the rest. He is only a bit dizzy though, maybe because of the adrenaline still coursing through his blood.

He looks around only to see the battle is over; it had appeared already over when Bellatrix was still there. But he can't see her in the immediate vicinity as one of the fallen. At least, they've won.

Regulus heaves a sigh, but stops trying to keep Sirius sitting down anymore. Instead he lends him a hand so he can stand up.

"What happened?"

"Dumbledore came." he says. "You almost got yourself killed. Whatever clever thing you did it was still stupid."

Regulus still feels uncomfortable about it. Last thing he needs is to lose his only attachment to this people, to anyone in fact. After Sirius had fallen, things had gone alarmingly quick. The battle had restarted, every member of the Order fighting once again as fiercely as they had just moments before Dumbledore's arrival. Kingsley had kept fighting with Bellatrix trying to get her out of his hair and block her escape, and Regulus had restarted his duel with an unmasked Mulciber. Lupin had been busy struggling with Harry for him to stay still. She'd escaped and Mulciber had not. Dumbledore had most of the remaining Death Eaters grouped in the middle of the room, seemingly immobilised by invisible ropes.

Mad-Eye Moody's been reanimated easily enough, and the dry blood on the side of his head only makes him look rougher, as he watches over the captured and unconscious Death Eaters. He's spent the last five minutes trying to get Sirius out of his stupor. He's banged his head good, but apparently it isn't to do any lasting damage. His left arm though, has been trapped in a strange position beneath his body with severe burns all over it. Sirius though, only grits his teeth at the pain and ignores it while he makes an assessment of the situation.

"Thanks." says Sirius as he regains his footing. He seems far more aware than he shoul've been. "For the warning."

Regulus nods, still uneasy, and dying to ask what the heck just happened between him and Bellatrix.

"Where's Harry?"

Regulus shifts uneasily on his feet.

"He went after Bellatrix." Sirius turns his head sharply, and brings a hand to his brow.

"What?"

"Dumbledore went after them." he grabs Sirius by his arm. "He'll have him by now. Besides, there's little you can do with that arm.

Sirius twitches convulsively at the disjunctive of ignoring him or caving in to reason. Kingsley, like Moody is shaking the last remnants of the dizziness left by respective stunning spells. They stand guard over the Death Eaters and Tonks, who is laid on her back a few yards apart, looking very, very still.

Lupin is just helping the boy that was with Harry throughout this whole ordeal come down the stairs and sit down. He has apparently put an end to the curse on his legs. The swollen nose though, has only receded a little, because Lupin certainly isn't a great healer.

"Where are the others?" he asks the boy.

"Shtill in the bbain room, pbofessob." he says brokenly.

Lupin looks up at him at his tall grim friend. The boy looks at him warily, and Sirius knows he must look a fright. Still, Remus seems unfazed and simply commandeers their help to locate the remaining students in other rooms.

In the adjacent room things are a right mess. Almost on entering, they step right into a puddle of sticky fluid. Some tanks have burst out and spilled their brainy contents on the floor. As they pass them they avoid their searching appendages, and freeze some of the more mobile ones. At one corner of the room, right behind a broken container they find the rest of the teenagers in quite a sorry state. Hermione is huddled on the floor, limp and unconscious. A few feet away, Luna is groaning on the floor, next to Ginny, who is holding her ankle tightly, and looks first scared and then relieved to see them come. Ron is giggling and playing around with a broken glass.

Remus kneels next to Hermione and looks for any sign of concussion, but worryingly enough, it seems her problem is worse than that. Sirius kneels instead in front of Ginny, while Regulus has to manhandle Ron into sitting still so he can check the tentacle marks on his arms.

"What happened to him?" says Sirius when he checks her ankle. She shrugs but looks anxious.

"I don't know what hit him," she says. "But he's gone all funny and is behaving like a three-year old."

Lupin rises and checks on Luna, then turns to Sirius.

"Hermione is still unconscious, but she'll be fine, Miss. Lovegood is in almost perfect condition. What about them?"

"A broken ankle." says Sirius brusquely. Sirius makes a general healing spell for broken bones on her ankle and spells a cast over it anyways.

"No idea." says Regulus. "Only that he's talking absolute non-sense."

"We better get them with Moody and the rest." says as he helps Luna rise.

They leave them with Neville. Sirius kneels besides Nymphadora, who still lies there, coming in and out of consciousness on one of the stone benches. He starts feeling up her neck and skull, to check were the collateral injuries of her fall are; satisfied that there are none, he checks later her arms and legs. The hex itself has to be treated with several potions that they obviously, have not.

"This is taking too long." he says, frowning.

Kingsley who is right beside him, looks worriedly to the upper doors of the room.

"Let's go. They'll be fine the moment they are sent to St Mungo's!" he barks.

"We could bump into..."

"I'm not staying any longer!"

Regulus follows him, more or less convinced that Shacklebolt will follow. Undoing the route that had taken them to the Department of Mysteries doesn't take half as long as it had appeared then.

The vision that greets them at the Atrium is terrifying. Voldemort is there, his faithful Bellatrix lying there at his feet, her master's feet. The Fountain of Magical Brethen is destroyed to a mountain of rubble, and the magical windows are shattered. Dumbledore is next to the fountain, and Voldemort right in front of him. Harry is small, hiding behind a statue, his face covered in dirt and struggling against something invisible.

They all freeze over.

"If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy…" the cry resonates in the empty space.

None of them understand what has happened, but Harry slumps forwards. Suddenly with a cry and a hiss Voldemort reappears in the middle of the Atrium, standing taller than ever, the red eyes on his snake-like face shooting daggers at Dumbledore. The old Headmaster turns around to face him again, face grim. But then alarms go off. Fireplaces connected to the floo network start functioning and half-dressed wizards start stepping out of the green flames. There are voices echoing through the hall, more voices than there should have been…

Voldemort, walks towards Bellatrix, fury written all over his face, grabs her by the arm and then disappears. Sirius casts a look at his brother and then at Kingsley, and the three of them back again to the lifts.

"Get him out of here," he says Sirius to Kingsley as he motions his brother. "It's going to be trouble enough with me here. And he is one thing we won't be able to explain."

The alarmed look seems to have been plastered to Regulus' face, and he watches worriedly as Sirius stabs the lift to go down and returns back to the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. Kingsley nods, and with a swift but unnoticeable flick of his wand Regulus vanishes, under a disillusioning spell.

"I'll get him out now, before they block all exits." Kingsley whispers to Sirius. "Follow me."

More wizards and witches keep entering the Atrium, right there, Cornelius Fudge himself appears on the scene, his eyes the size of plates. They see Dumbledore leaning over Harry, who seems to be waking up. Shacklebolt blocks the entry from the closest fireplace jabbing at one amber square on top.

"It'll drop you out on the street... go back to Headquarters." Kingsley mutters under his breath at him, as he gets sucked by the same emptiness that let them in.

The Atrium is full of people; the floor is reflecting the emerald green flames that have burst into life in all the fireplaces along one wall; and streams of witches and wizards are emerging from them. A stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge is standing right in the middle of them all.

"He was there!" shouts Williamson. "I saw him, Mr Fudge, I swear it was You-Know-Who, he grabbed a woman and Disapparated!"

The murmurs go louder... and then he is on the streets and alone and has to make it back to Grimmauld Place alone.


	25. Chapter 24: Leverage

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four – Leverage**

Sirius comes to stand beside Remus. He's on the floor beside Tonks, checking her vitals every now and then.

"He's fine." he says, and Lupin looks at him for a moment with a told-you-so kind of expression. "Voldemort appeared."

"What?"

"Dumbledore duelled him. The Aurors are on their way."

"You should leave." says Remus with a strained voice, Sirius shakes his head.

"I'm tired of running. Let them find me." He surveys the present there, including the pained but conscious Tonks, and instructs:

"If they ask you how many were we; we were _only_ six, understood?"

It doesn't take long for the sound of voices to reach them. The Minister himself, Dumbledore and an eclectic assemble of varied people, who are probably aurors. He doesn't turn to see them enter; instead he chooses to remain with his back to the door and steels himself for the final showdown.

"He… Sirius Black!" comes the shrill sound of the diminutive Minister. "What's he doing here? What's the meaning of this? Dumbedore!"

It must have been shocking. Entering there, all those Death Eaters tied on the floor, and he, the most wanted of them all standing there... free to go. And not doing anything at all about it.

"It is a long story Cornelius, but it appears that the story relayed by Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Granger at the time of his last capture was reliable after all." says Dumbledore calmly.

Sirius turns around very slowly towards the newcomers, and without being quite able to control it, throws them a look of utter contempt. Looking at a tittering Fudge, he knows things can unfold in two ways in the face of his recent discredit: either they take Dumbledore's words at face value in overcompensation or become even more intransigent than before in their eagerness to be proved right about something at least. The Minister looks about to suffer from overload of new information. He's impossibly red on the face and his eyes look about to pop out of his face.

"Black's a raving lunatic!" cries the Minister. "He killed thirteen people! That is just too much, even for your stories, Dumbledore. Arrest him, Williamson!"

He says to the tall slim man with a ponytail that is hovering right behind him.

Williamson is very businesslike, only that Mad-Eye Moddy would've made him chopped steak in less time that it takes to say quidditch, for he doesn't notice that Sirius is still armed; quite the unforgivable mistake in an auror. The binding spell never makes it to Sirius, because without words and even without much of a gesture of his right arm, his magical shield makes the spell rebound back towards Williamson, who has to make an utterly ridiculous dive to avoid it.

The auror scrambles away from him frightened, and Sirius is this close to sneering at him for being taken aback by a simple _protego_. He knows he must look a fright. His injured arm is still bleeding and it isn't more obvious because his robes are black, but blood drips from his fingers to the floor and is making quite a puddle. He surely will have left a trail in his wake. He is pasty white, pale beyond healthy and his hair is stuck to his face on his right temple, where the dry blood, vibrant red, is a deep contrast with the rest of him. His hair has come loose, with that intrinsic ability that it has to make him look dangerous and angry. He isn't angry, just very tired.

"Arrest him! Arrest him I said! And call for the dementors!" the Minister shrieks some more. "Dumbledore do some...!"

"That's quite enough!" says Dumbledore's with quiet fury. A furious Dumbeldore is quite enough of a rare sight for everyone to fall immediately silent. "The dementors will not be getting involved in this."

"But protocol..."

"Protocol says charges have to be brought first, and witnesses have to last past interrogation." the Headmaster says, talking to Fudge no better than he would a ten-year old. "Sirius here was fighting against Voldemort and if you bother to raise enough witnesses you can confirm that."

"But..."

"I understand the need to arrest him preventively until this is all cleared, but Azkaban doesn't have to be aware of it." Dumbledore says. "You have every right to interrogate him. But only that."

Sirius' throws a fulminating glare to all present, expressing effusively his disagreement over it, but far too relieved by having Dumbledore do something, _anything_; that he refrains from being directly mutinous.

"Hear him out." says Dumbledore. "And bring him to St. Mungo first, so he can get his injuries looked at." he adds.

"It's nothing professor." he says dismissingly, but Dumbledore ignores him; more than used to stubbornness from his end. Fudge looks more than a little upset.

"Have it your way." he says, and he looks like he just swallowed a lemon. "And what about the rest?"

"The same standard procedure." he says severely, looking over the half-moon spectacles. "But I would appreciate that you did not interrogate my students, Cornelius."

Fudge mutters a half-arsed agreement, and frowns again looking at the captured Death-Eaters.

"Who have we captured? How many?"

"Eleven. They're Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Matthias Mulciber, Adolph Avery, Walden MacNair, August Rockwood, Winfred Crabbe, Ethan Jugson and Thaddeus Nott. We've checked their identities without the masks." Sirius offers voluntarily, looking askance at the Death Eater pile. "And there's Bellatrix Lestrange, who's missing because she slipped past us."

His sneer of contempt could have competed with the Minister's rictus.

"Thurmond, Davies, Taylor and Harrison, arrest them and drag them to interrogation. Hollis and Carlyle bring the wounded to St. Mungo and assure that the Order of the Phoenix members are interrogated afterwards. Carson, you'll be Black's escort, make sure he makes it to the holding cells, I want a complete interrogation. If there's anything suspicious at all keep him under arrest."

The auror advances cautiously towards Sirius; he almost laughs in his face for his queasy behaviour, but it probably is a wise decision not to. Dunbledore holds out his hand to Sirius, who mutely gives him his wand. Dumbledore hands it to the auror, who is more relaxed when he takes him by the arm.

"You promised me explanations, so they'd better be good." Fudge says crossly at Dumbledore, who nods.

"You may lead."

::::::::::::::

Sirius is sitting on a bench of St. Mungo's Spell Damage Ward. To his almost complete satisfaction, busy wizards pass by him without noticing him. Inside, Tonks is resting after a long late night; it is past midnight now well into early morning, it's apparently taken long hours to properly treat the curse.

"Black!" the ill-tempered close-bearded auror barks commandingly; seemingly having overcome his uneasiness around Sirius. Carson comes from the end of the corridor leading to Emergencies, were he left him; and were Sirius purposefully lost him; looking like all the furies of hell put together. "This is attempted escape!"

"No, it isn't." he says placidly. He's made a point of putting up a non-aggressive resistance, and so far is doing quite well. "In fact I haven't moved from where you left me."

"I left you in your in Magical Emergencies." roars the man.

He still wonders that they left him to be watched by only one auror. Either they're very confident or their security protocols have gone down the drain. Because Sirius knows very well that, had he wanted to, he could be by now halfway to China; he only has to jam his elbow fast enough into that mass of spare tires, leave him well winded, and take the wand. Merlin knows that the auror force doesn't train their people to resist physical struggles. But he's been a good little boy so far so he's still listening to this idiot rant.

"You left me in St. Mungo; and I'm still here."

The auror probably shackles him with too much force, but Sirius is happy enough to see him riled. It gives room to complain about Ministry brutality later on.

::::::::::::::

Dawlish sweeps through the corridors between cubicles by the main office of the Auror Department. He dumps the interrogation transcripts by his table, which now is in a sorry state of disorderliness. The interrogation rooms in level ten are full to bursting with both members of the so-called Order of the Phoenix and Death Eaters. It is a bad business, as the Ministry doesn't have holding facilities outside of Azkaban that have capacity for so many people at once. Luckily, there are many that have passed first through St. Mungo, and they haven't been as catastrophically overcrowded as they could've been. They've had to put courtrooms one and two1 up as guarded make-believe cells and postponed any minor trials scheduled for today.

It is an understatement to say the Magical Law Enforcement Department is in the brink of utter chaos. They're being painstakingly meticulous with this awkward business, as the general sentiment in the Department is that too many mistakes have taken place recently, and the aurors want to get these recent events perfectly straight.

He searches Yates' desk summarily looking for a missing part of a file, before deciding that someone else has already taken it down to level ten.

He's late, and Yates is already waiting for him, with a not too friendly face and the missing file under his arm. Dawlish is tired, confused, and this whole business is so against his very sense of rightness and decency. And then there is this borderline illegal organization of Dumbledore's, this Order of the Phoenix, whose members he is not so sure should be set free as indiscriminately as Scrimgeour is allowing. They have werewolves with them, for the love of Merlin! Not that he thinks Shacklebolt is anything but what he is... a hot-head that needs to be told rules exist for a reason. Comparatively, this Death Eaters are much easier to deal with. Not that any of them have said anything worth so many hours of interrogation.

The interrogation rooms are a clever thing adapted from muggle law enforcement (although the Ministry would prefer their tongues be cut off than admit it) in which there is a small side cupboard with a one way glass that overlooks were the prisoner is being interrogated. He normally enjoys doing the interrogation, but right now he'd give anything to avoid it.

Sirius Black is one heck of a problem. Almost the whole Departement is inclined to admit that although there are some loose ends to his story, the truth appears to be that indeed Black is not a Death Eater. To begin with there is the fact that he doesn't have the Dark Mark. On the other hand, there aren't only a few aurors bent on proving that there was no case of incompetency going on, and that procedures were followed by the time he was imprisoned the first time. That would give them liberty to lock him up again. But in either case there are _responsibilities_ to be dished out.

They've taken him into one of the rooms, and preventively chained to the chair. He's been forced to interrogation under veritaserum. The tales that come out of that mouth are absolutely incredible, and they're all quite frustrated because his answers are fragmentary, not as fulsome as they'd like. He's been watching the previous interrogation rounds by other senior members of the Department and he's beginning to think it is actually possible to fool a veritaserum test. Not that they don't warn aurors about it; but in his ten years of experience in the force he hasn't seen a case where it happened, not even once.

Sirius Black is many things, clever, proud, biting, inconsiderate, non-complacent... irritated, and amused; and he can't quite seem to decide which one to be at this time. He's quite above feeling sorry for the aurors and their headaches. His arm is behaving like a goblin with a grudge. He's been chained up, arms and legs to a chair affixed to the floor, and he can't even scratch, or balance the chair in the air as is his wont when he's bored.

He feels like he's explained the same thing over and over again, which he obviously has, but he distinctly feels like he's been talking to a brick wall. Of course everyone worth their salt knows veritaserum tests can be fooled; he knows it, they know it and provably even Fudge knows it, the incompetent cretin. The effect of the stuff waned ages ago, and making him repeat things over and over won't make him change his statement. He will tell them exactly what he wants, nothing more nothing less.

After all, be it innate talent or not, one only need be mildly capable at occlumancy and aware of it to will himself not to spill inconvenient truths. Omitting facts is, even under veritaserum, disturbingly easy, and lying is still feasible. So far, he deliberately has avoided bringing Regulus up at any moment of the conversation.

This Auror Yates, of middle-age and polite demeanour is merely boring. But the other, younger one, Dawlish, who had airs of greatness is just too pro-Fudge to even be a credible auror.

"Where to begin, Mr Black?" says Dawlish, looking at some notes of other interrogations. "I believe you should clear this thing of your presumed innocence out for us."

Sirius raises a lonely eyebrow. "Again?"

"As many times as we feel necessary to ascertain the facts." The other eyebrow rises to be level with her companion.

"There's nothing to clear up. The only fact you need to check on is that I'm innocent." Dawlish's answer, whatever it is, is cut by the, until then, silent Yates.

"That is precisely the fact that we've come here to ascertain." he says.

"No you haven't." he sneers. "You come here to prove that I am not."

"That is an unjust accusation."

"Trouble for you is, that I am, innocent. And therein lays your dilemma. The more you scratch the more difficult it becomes to prove anything. You've already taken a declaration from every other person liable to confirm it. I bet you even have some from the masked buffoons that say Peter Pettigrew has been sighted."

"However unlikely as that seems, we'll take Professor Dumbledore's vouch on the matter, until further progress is made. This is the reason there are no dementors in the room, if I might remind you."

Sirius face clearly conveys his contempt.

"And there is of course the other matter; that you _escaped_ Azkaban." Dawlish says triumphant. "You didn't follow the proper courses before or after..."

"After? How after...?" Sirius barks. "Please, tell me you don't believe the words you are saying, because that'd be too much. But I see where you are going, _Sir_."

And there are little things, more disdainful than an overly-polite Sirius Black; he is precisely the kind of man than easily dishes out mockery.

"The Ministry cannot press charges in relation to escaping Azkaban, unless you are a proven criminal, tried and sentenced." he says firmly. "And I wasn't tried."

Dawlish remains silent but seething, while Yates looks at him evaluating him, powerfully interested in a legal loophole that could be either very problematic or heaven-sent solution.

"Barthemius Crouch Sr. raised the Martial Law in December 1980. It wasn't raised until seven months after I was imprisoned." he says. "My case is to be considered as a war crime, if at all. And while many of you thought it quite the clever solution, no trials, quicker procedure, and no legal boundaries for auror squads... you _forgot_ that there are no repercussions for a prisoner trying to escape. It is in fact, _expected_. I wasn't interrogated, and I wasn't sentenced by a proper court. I was a war prisoner; I had every right to attempt escape. My sentence was a one-man decision. And there can be no legal repercussions about it."

"We could still charge you now; make the proper investigations."

"Good luck to you. You'll find that to be quite difficult. But I'm sure that after several of my previous statements to your other monkey-faced men you have half department working on checking out the rest of it, and I haven't been accused of being a liar yet."

Dawlish scowls at him.

"So, if the interrogation is going to continue down that thread, I suggest you release me, for there really is no reason why I shouldn't be cleared."

"You are absolutely right Mr. Black." says Yates finally, silently shutting Dawlish up. "But we are not finished yet. Perhaps you should start by telling us why where you at the department of Mysteries tonight."

Sirius groans and lets his head fall backwards, unable to quench his need to hit something.

Truth is Yates is convinced that they'll eventually have to let him go; his version of the facts and his innocence has been corroborated by both sides tonight, even the totality of Death Eaters, rather unwillingly besides.

"I've been a member of the Order of the Phoenix since 1978, and when Voldemort returned..." both aurors jump at the name. "...and we were called back, I answered, like most of the original members who are still alive. This evening, I received a message that there had been an ambush from the Death Eaters in the Ministry, and that Harry was there. I responded to the emergency and came here. We came in through one of the personnel entrances."

"That's why the alarms of the Atrium first went off around nine o'clock." says Yates. "Please, do go on."

"Me and four other members of the Order arrived at the Atrium and went towards the Department of Mysteries."

"Which four members?" asks Dawlish brusquely.

"Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Only them?" asks the auror. "Are you sure there was no one else?" Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Of course I am sure. We entered the Department of Mysteries and we joined the brawl inside the Death Chamber."

"How many Death Eaters were there?" asks Auror Yates.

"Twelve. Want me to tell you their names?" asks sarcastically Sirius.

"That won't be necessary."

"What happened next?" asks the younger auror.

"We fought, Lestrange escaped and Harry followed her to the Atrium, then you came down and found us." says Sirius. "End of story."

"Would you mind specifying who you duelled with?"

"Of course..." sarcasm stained his voice. "…let me think, first it was Rodolphus Lestrange, then I stupefied Dolohov, and finally I engaged myself in a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, the old bitch, and got my arm almost sliced off." he says rattling the chains on his arm. "And that would be it."

The aurors looked at each other.

"Only them?" asked the older man.

"Yes, absolutely."

"What about Jugson?"

"What about him?"

"You didn't duel with him?"

"No."

"You'll have to stay here for a while." says Yates, and he holds the door open for his companion, as he motions him to follow him out of the room.

Outside, in the matchbox of a cupboard overlooking the room four aurors are crammed inside, more or less; the door open outside and the small table at the back end overflowing with folders and papers.

"I hate interrogating lawyers." Yates says.

"It is an annoyance." Thurmond concurs. "Scrimgeour wants you in his office, now."

"Now?" he says. "Oh damn."

And he leaves, to face the old lion in his den.

"I don't think we'll get much more out of him." says Thurmond, a white haired wizard with a close-cropped beard; looking contemplatively out of the one-way glass. "What do you have from Lupin, Davies?"

The woman named Davies is a portly black woman of almost thirty years, with severe spectacles and very short hair, looks over some notes scribbled hastily.

"Well, according to him, they arrived at the Ministry around 9 o'clock, and found Potter and the Gang struggling with the Death Eaters in the Death Chamber, he said that the battle was totally chaotic but he clearly remembers fighting with _Rabastan_ Lestrange, who he didn't defeat because he lost him, and Malfoy, who was stupefied. He also recalls Sirius Black duelling with Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Which fits with what Malfoy said. And with what Black just said." adds Williamson. "But there's something that doesn't quite add up in Black's statement, because Jugson swears that he overcame him with a stupefying spell."

"Something's wrong for sure, then." Dawlish says crossly.

"The Order's statements fit perfectly well." says Taylor, a reedy and very blond auror with thick glasses.

"Well, Jugson's the discordant note." Thurmond says. "What did the other Death Eaters say?"

"Eeeh... partly, what they say fits with Lupin's and Black's statement, but there's one thing that bothers me." says Davies.

"What?" says Dawlish.

"Malfoy, MacNair and Dolohov claim not to be precisely sure of were exactly Sirius Black was during the brawl: quoting exactly that "he was _everywhere_" or "I couldn't tell you how he came to attack me from the right when I'd seen him just before straight ahead of me"... that's Dolohov by the way." she says. "Rookwood even said that he thinks he saw Black in two different places at the same time.

"It could be someone under Polyjuice potion." says Dawlish.

"Wait, there's more. Jugson swears it was Black who sent him the last curse."

"And then there's Rabastan Lestrange and Mulciber who say they saw a seventh member of the Order fighting. They can't identify him." says Taylor.

"Him?" Davies says. He shrugs.

"It must have seemed a 'he' to them."

"That's quite impossible." says Williamson impatiently. "Even Dumbledore said that they were six, counting himself."

"And they also say," Davies comments. "that... that seventh member was no other than…" she looks at her notes. "…someone by the name of Regulus Black; who I have no idea who it is and the guys are looking through the Death Eaters-related files right now."

"Could he have something to do with _that_ Black?" asks Williamson, pointing at Sirius Black through the looking glass.

"Certainly." Thurmond says wearily. "They are an old and extended family, although I'm not familiar with that particular name at all."

"I'm not so sure." says Taylor. "Kingsley had me make the background checks for Black two years ago. I remember quite clearly that he had no living family under the surname Black. It might be someone else."

"Maybe we're just wasting our time with this, because it can't be that only Death Eaters saw him." Says Dawlish. "I want to go home."

"Though luck lad." says Thurmond, and hands him a cup of strong coffee. "We're all staying up for another round."

"I know why it reminded me of something." says Williamson tugging at his ponytail. "Wasn't it that case that had McBride obsessed? It's very old."

"I'm sure he must have it somewhere on his desk." says Davies.

"Probably." says Thurmond. "Someone go and ask him about it. Davies, you're coming in with me."

::::::::::::::

"Are you sure that you don't feel like amending your earlier statement?" asks Thurmond.

Unlike other prisoners, Black doesn't even blink when another pair of aurors enters to continue were the others left off. It has already happened several times, and it doesn't have much of an effect over the prisoner; even when it is supposed to help not to give the suspects chance to get used to one interrogator.

"Yes, absolutely sure." says the grey-eyed man nonchalantly.

"Well, someone is obviously lying... for the statements made by the Death Eaters seem to be in some disagreement with yours, Mr Black." says Thurmond, caressing his chin.

"Is that supposed to mean anything? They are, by their very definition, a bunch of liars and madmen." says Sirius. "It's not my fault their views don't agree with mine. I don't think their views of the world agree with yours either."

"That's not quite what I meant; can we stick to the night of the 6th?" he answers. "These statements were obtained under veritaserum.

"You know very well veritaserum is not acceptable in a court room as more than circumstantial evidence. It doesn't make a man tell the truth, but what the subject believes to be the truth, and even then it can be fallible when dealing with certain scope of people."

"But Jugson insists that it was you who smashed the bones of his leg and left him a pretty mark across his face." says Davies smirking. "How can you explain that?"

"Well, their touch with reality must be more damaged than I thought. I didn't even come near him. I was right at the other end of the room, being too busy with Bellatrix to pay him any attention." says as he raises his wounded arm. "He banged his head folling down the stone benches, most likely he became a bit muddled."

"And what's your relation with the Death Eater Lestrange that you keep calling her by first name?" asks she. Sirius laughs bitterly.

"Oh, you didn't do your homework." she says. "Whether I want it or not, she's my cousin. And no, I haven't talked to her, nor contacted her on purpose in the last twenty years. On the provision, that I've spent 13 years of my life living in a cell right in front of hers."

"Right..." she leafs through her notes while a Charmed Quill keeps writing down everything. "Another thing, how can you explain away that almost all Death Eaters have stated that there was something out of place with you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You see, Dolohov, Malfoy and McNair say that you where everywhere during the fight, Rockwood claims to have seen you in two different places at the same time, Jugson claims to have been duelling to you, although you deny it. And Mulciber and the Lestrange are very insistent in the fact that they saw…" Davies looks up a name in his notebook. "…someone by the name of Regulus Black, who the aurors are still looking up in the records. He was fighting with the Order. So help me untangle this mess, Mr Black."

Sirius huffs and straightens up in his chair.

"I'll straighten this up for you. First of all, about what Malfoy, Dolohov and McNair said... the battle was truly chaotic, and really fast, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to conclude they don't know what they saw. Or I may have been moving too fast for their eyes, it wouldn't be the first time either." he finishes with a disdainful smile.

"And the duel with Jugson?"

"Jugson is stupid, more close to a Troll than a Wizard. I bet he couldn't tell apart his feet from his hands if you asked him. He certainly can't tell handle from tip when it comes to his wand." he sneers. "So don't try to make me explain you how his brain works."

"And what's this about a seventh member in the Order's side?" asks Thurmond. Sirius sighs.

"Let me save you the time of going and looking up Regulus' file; he _was_ my brother, and he _is_ dead. End of the story, there's no way he could have suddenly come back to life. Even in the Department of Mysteries. He was foolish, stupid, a right imbecile; and that's all you need to know. Besides, there is another piece of information; he was a Death Eater. Even if he had managed to escape the grave, which I highly doubt, he wouldn't have been fighting with the Order."

Both aurors listen quietly to his explanation.

"So here's my theory: the Lestranges are absolutely crazy, and Azkaban did them no good, but that is nothing new. Mulciber's a cretin and an hypocrite who really has degenerated with time; I wouldn't trust a man who cries for his _mummy_ in his sleep to even hold my cloak, let alone to make statement. They were all in Azkaban."

"So were you."

"Of course." he answers blandly.

"Your brother?" asks the woman.

"Yes, my brother." he continues with a weary sigh, which really he doesn't have to fake. "He disappeared in the 79' and was considered dead. I wouldn't spill too much tears over it, he was a spoiled brat, who believed himself to be the above everyone else. He was arrogant, and overbearing. Most likely he accidentally cut himself while shaving and bled to death. Then the family tried to cover up such a stupid death only for the sake of appearances. It was bad enough he was dead, it was worse if he didn't die a hero. It's impossible that he was there."

"But the only reasonable way that Jugson could have been taken out of the fight was if there was a seventh member fighting." Thurmond points out.

"I personally wouldn't trust a statement from a Death Eater, with or without veritaserum. They are raging mad and there's no way to understand their thought processes."

A knock on the door stopped this interrogation, that was starting to run in circles.

"If you excuse us."

Outside they come face to face with Williamson, carrying a thick file.

"You were right, McBride had the file." says the auror. "I've taken a look and there's pretty much what Black told you."

He opens the file and hands it over to Thurmond, who skims the information with his eyes. The he gives it back.

"His full name's Regulus Arcturus Black, born on the 20th July 1961, second son of Orion and Wallburga Black and younger brother of Sirius Black. Apparently the lad was a suspected Death Eater, though there's not a single evidence of that. Eeh... according to what McBride found out then, he disappeared the 13th December 1979, and the family considered him dead. The magic family tree in eh possession of the Blacks declared him dead the 15th December 1979. The body was never found, which did not help the investigation, and… what else?"

He skins through some more pieces of yellowed parchment.

"Oh, yes… Apparently, the last person to ever see him was his mother, during lunch on the 13th. McBride discovered blood, a lot of not-coagulated blood, in the dinning room of an old, abandoned property of the Black family in Glasgow, which according to Mrs Black, hadn't been used since 1934. By the lack of coagulation we estimate the death was around 4 am. McBride also obtained blood samples from the parents and compared them with the blood found, the result was that the blood belonged to a son, for sure, but they couldn't specify which one. The test concluded that it could have belonged to Sirius or Regulus Black. Well, McBride obtained a sample from the elder Black after he was detained in 1981 and compared. Which is stupid and inconclusive because blood tests are not supposed to be that specific.2" he scoffs. "McBride also talked to relatives and friends, and found out that young Mr Black was in very bad terms with his brother. Almost every single person that was interrogated said that he was a generally nice boy, studious, with a comfortable life, was even boring."

"Except for the fact that he was a suspected Death Eater." points out Davies.

"Yeah ...a lot of words to say that we know nothing." says the older auror.

"Yes. In fact, there are 48 hours since Black was last seen until he died. And McBride never found out what exactly happened in those 48 hours, the lost hours, as he calls it…" he looks down at the file again. "The main suspects were Bellatrix Lestrange, his cousin; and Sirius Black, as he wasn't anywhere to be found during the 14th. It seems he ruled out the Death Eaters because the house wasn't marked. He concluded that it was someone of the family, that got him out of the way for some reason. And the rest of the file is filled with crackpot theories based in non-existent evidence."

A round of laughter went around through the people assembled, and tension seemed to ease off a little.

"Sounds like McBride alright. One of these days he'll find himself in the Centaur Department." Thurmond says jocularly, chuckling.

"So, we have no idea of what happened?" asks Dawlish, ignoring his senior.

"That's pretty much it, yes." says Williamson.

"He's most likely dead, isn't he?"

"Who's dead?" comes Yates' voice from behind, clearly fuming from whatever transpired with Scrimgeour.

"Regulus Black." says Williamson, handing him the file.

"Yes, that's the reasonable conclusion." he says, but he opens the file.

"You know him?" Davies says. "Lestrage and Mulciber think they saw him in the Department of Mysteries."

"Really." he says. "That's unlikely. I _knew_ him. So did them. He's supposed to be dead."

"We assume he's dead." points out Taylor.

"It is the only logical conclusion after twenty years missing." he says annoyed. "Not even the faintest rumour about him."

"Until two days ago." Davies reminds him.

- He was a Slytherin like me; we were in the same year. And just the kind of people you are glad to be rid of. Half of this... is profoundly wrong." he says closing the file and waving it in the air with distaste. "You'd have problems to find one single person who didn't lie about something. First you have to look up who they used as character witnesses. Naturally the thing remained unsolved. They botched his personality... the last thing he was, is meek, boring or something in that line. He was quiet, that's true, but could be really acid, sarcastic... and generally speaking, a great bastard. I still wonder how he could hate his brother so much, seeing that they're so much alike. Every time their paths crossed they started the twentieth Goblin war."

"And what you are trying to tell us with that?" asks Dawlish.

"That I think Black's right, they didn't get along, and Regulus Black was a pureblood maniac. He would have never fought side by side with his brother, nor with the Order of the Phoenix."

"It makes sense." says Taylor.

"So how the hell do we explain that two Death Eaters claim to have seen him, if he's dead?" asks Dawlish clearly annoyed.

Yates reclaims the file from Williamson and flips it open, and fumbles in Sirius' Blacks file. The he slaps a photograph over the table.

"This is Sirius Black in 1981." He says, and then he slaps a second photograph over the one-way glass. "This was Regulus Black in 1979."

Both youthful faces look up blankly at them. Their faces are long and narrow, their skin pasty white, they have grey eyes and dark hair. Sirius Black makes a handsomer picture, but had they not known, it would have been very difficult to tell which one had truly been Sirius Black in its day. The Regulus Black in the picture was considerably younger but still, the resemblance was uncanny, same black hair… they could be easily mistaken. The difference in the haircut Sirius Black had undergone made it even easier to explain.

"Because it is an easy confusion to make." he says. "It was a full-out battle. Merlin!"

"Right, that man inside there could be Regulus Black and we wouldn't notice." Taylor says glumly. His comment is followed by a moment of complete silence.

"So, how do we know that truly it is Sirius Black in there?" asks Dawlish. The rest of furrowed brows turn around to look at him.

"Because we checked the Azkaban tattoos." Turmond answers in a tone that leaves no room to doubt that he considers Dawlish to be absolutely stupid.

"Right." Davies says. "But truly, what makes you so sure that we can dismiss the Death Eater statements; not that I don't want to..."

Yates shrugs, helplessly.

"Death Eaters always had an irrational fear of some of the members of this Order. Not that we knew it was called that way by any official conduct. At the time, Longbottom, Moody, Dumbledore and Black put them in jitters. They certainly have an irrational amount of fear and hatred stored up for Sirius Black. It made us think that it was because he had a higher power than them in Voldemort's circle. But maybe it was only that he was ruthless with them... my guess is that they are more than paranoid when it comes to dealing with him. He had not made an appearance in two years. They weren't expecting him there.

"Look, here's what I would do." says Thurmond the older auror. "I would finish with these interrogations and try to fix this mess from here."

"I think we can release Lupin safely, his statement is all clear." says Davies.

"And all we have left to do is clearing up the Azkaban issue, because I think it's pretty clear that he was with the Order." Dawlish seems to have a different opinion, though he keeps it to himself.

"What do I do with this?" Williamson says holding up Regulus Black's file.

"Misplace it, just to make sure McBride does not get his hands on the case again." answers the older auror. "It is a cold case. He shouldn't be working on it."

"Where do I put it?"

"I don't know… 'Homicides' instead of 'Missing People'; X instead of B."

"Then I'll go and release Lupin." says Taylor.

"And make sure to fill the necessary paperwork."

"Sure Boss." he says, and Dawlish and Thurmond re-enter Black's room.

::::::::::::::

"I would like to know what happened fifteen years ago, just to have a complete statement." Thurmond says.

"I wasn't a Death Eater, nor the secret-keeper of the Potter family." he says.

The Charmed Quill rolls quickly into action.

"I swapped places with Peter Pettigrew at the last moment; the idea was to have the Death Eaters on my trail, while Peter could be safe. And as long as Peter was safe, so would James and Lily, and Harry. But Peter betrayed us, and sold the Potters to Voldemort. When I heard about it, I ran after him and caught up with him in a muggle part of London near Diagon Alley, he ran and I followed. I finally cornered him in a crowded muggle street in the East End. He yelled for everyone to hear that it had been me the one to betray James, and then cut his finger and blew up half the street." repetition is the reason he now can repeat this without having any outward reaction. "He escaped through the draining system. He was a rat animagus. I fail to see how this is any more useful than any of the times you asked previously."

"You were closer to him than the muggles that died, why is that you didn't get even a scratch?" asks Dawlish.

"I used a _protego_, in fact if the Ministry hit-wizards and officials at the scene had followed the procedure and performed a _priore incantamenta_ on my wand they would seen it; the last spell I cast was a magical shield in order to stop the blast."

"Even if that is true, which might not be..." the older auror looked pointedly at Dawlish.

"I don't care if you are certain or not, I'm telling the truth and I've told as far as I can tell. I'm not doing any further comments on the issue, because there is nothing else to comment."

"Of course." says Thurmond in an apologetic tone.

"Then tell us how did you escape from Azkaban." demands Dawlish.

"There is clearly no suitable explanation for that." he answers, eyeing the younger auror through half-lidded eyes. "Peter appeared in the paper the Minister gave me. You can check for a rat in one of the photos of the cover. It is missing a finger..."

"Are you telling me you recognized an illegal animagus presumed dead for twelve years on a small picture on the Prophet.

"Yes that is exactly what I am saying." he says. "Even if you keep pressing I won't change my version of the events."

"All this is very fine. But how exactly did you escape?"

"I don't know!" bursts out the grey-eyed man. "I don't know how I did it. I was inside my cell, got pissed off and the next thing I know is that I was outside, standing on the cliffs and looking back at Azkaban. Things didn't register until later."

"But no one escapes Azkaban without exterior help! It is known!"

"The world is made of exceptions Dawlish." he says coldly. "That should be all. You can release me already, or you call your boss. You chose."

::::::::::::::

The door of the interrogation room opens to reveal Rufus Scrimegour standing there. He enters and sits in front of Black, twiddling his thumbs over his twined fingers in front of him.

"Good afternoon Mr Black." he says politely. "I've been informed that you requested to talk to me?"

"I've been chained to this chair for more than forty-eight hours. I've been kept under arrest without any substantial evidence, and that's the limit a prisoner can be kept arrested if the ministry does not press charges." he says calmly. "On the other hand I believe the original charges have been dismissed. I've also answered all your questions without any complaint, but this is starting to get boring. So I would like to have my wand back and be allowed to go home."

Scrimegour looks at him appraisingly.

"Granted that would be, should be, done immediately, but there's still one small issue I'd like to clarify. Professor Dumbledore vouched for you, but at the same time he mentioned to Fudge in his longish explanations that you were an animagi, is that true?"

Sirius freezes and then nods, it is useless to deny it.

"Yes, I became one at the age of fifteen."

"Any special reason?" the old lion of a man says with a furrowed brow.

"It's a long story." Scrimegour motions with the head to go on. "But not one you and your people would be willing to understand. To make a long story short, I was too curious and wilful for my own good."

"You know that that makes you an illegal animagi; and the sentence for that is up to three months in Azkaban?"

"Of course I know that, Scrimgeour."

"The dementors should be too pleased, to have you back."

Sirius grimaces, and in the process bares all his teeth, in a gesture that is clearly defensive.

"You should reconsider."

"You haven't given me a good reason."

"You have two options; either you are incredibly greedy and send me those stipulated three months to Azkaban, or you compensate the twelve unnecessary years in Hell and have the human decency not to."

The older man looks at him like he is considering the offer.

"I believe that the Law was made to be followed."

Sirius laughs with a note of incredulity. The Head of the aurors looks at him waiting impatiently that his mirth stop. Which it does, suddenly, and his smile turns into a grin.

"I believe you don't understand this at all. I'll put it another way for you, Scrimegour: what if I start to sue?"

The smile vanishes from Scrimegour's face.

"Think about it, you can take your time, of course. But if I do that, I'm going to leave the department with only the broom cupboard." Sirius smile is mocking. "There are so many things I could sue for I've lost count. The prejudices are so incredibly high I doubt even the Wizengamot would have the nerve to overlook them."

Scrimgeour now has stopped fidgeting and is very still.

"In the first place there are, of course, the ocean of irregularities of my detention. The detaining officer, a mere hit-wizard then, now your precious Minister saw fit to use my wand to cast an _incarcero_ on me without doing a _priora_ _incantamenta_ on it. That was a mishandling of evidence. Then it was the particular way this department has to vent their anger on its prisoners. I am pretty certain they broke my wrist. And at the time you were right behind that glass and you did nothing. That is abuse of power. Then of course there is the fact that I wasn't tried... I spent twelve years in Azkaban on account of no particular charges... I say, and I think they will agree, I have already had my three months. Then there is also the fact that that my personal properties at the time... yes I know not those of the Black Family, but mine, were auctioned on behalf of the Ministry to patch up the crisis of the 83'. That's not entirely legal either, is it? Do you want me to continue? You don't look too good..."

Scrimgeour scans him over with his eyes, and had he not been seated he'd probably have stepped back.

"You've given it a lot of thought."

Sirius' triumphant grin isn't easy to ignore, and it shows a lot of teeth. "I've had _years_ to think about it." he drawls.

"I suppose…" starts Scrimegour after half minute of silence, conceding defeat. "...I suppose you could leave, without any problems."

He says, and the old lion looks defeated; but not as much as the Minister will be when he hears about it, when he has to explain _this_. Even if it is Amelia Bones who has to explain it to him, and not Scrimgeour, who would most likely do it screaming.

"But you'll have to fill some papers first and wait for your wand to be checked out... the wand you were using two days ago... and you'll be able to pick up your personal effects."

"I like that idea, when do we begin?"

::::::::::::::

Sirius spends almost four hours more waiting for his current wand, and another hour filling paperwork required for his release. It is tedious, but it should be worth his while, because when he walks down the street next he will do so a free man, a free man as he hasn't been since the 81'. They've assured him that they'll remove all the charges, and that a public apology should be released in the _Daily Prophet_.

His personal effects have already been returned to him. The totality of his clothing, for one; even if his shirt is totalled. He's easily patched up his robes, and they do hide most of the damage. His wand, uncle Alphard's, is now inside one of its deep hidden pockets. He's been allowed a trip to a bathroom and a mirror and at least no one has been too badly frightened of him. He had no other things on his person.

He finishes signing one of the formularies and hands it to minister official in charge of the evidence archive, who looks at it slowly up and down and then leaves towards one of the hallways of boxes at the very deep end. He returns with a small box labelled '_Sirius Black, case AG789_'; he hands the box to Sirius and leaves him alone.

Sirius opens it carefully and looks down at the small pile of old dusty objects. He removes the long shaft of _his_ wand, made of soft wood as pale as his skin. He looks at it with fondness and triumph as his fingers travel along the wood, getting the feel of it. There truly is nothing better than a wand of your own, where the previous owner's spell-casting doesn't interfere with your magic. Then he places it in his robes pocket and removes another object from the box; it is an pocket watch. It is made of silver and white gold and embossed with the crest of the Blacks in the reverse. It has a dent near the little wheel, from a hex on a previous confounded battle. It had been his coming of age present, a gift from Uncle Alphard. He doesn't look much at it and simply places it in his pocket too, where its comfortable weight rests snugly against his chest.

There isn't anything else of interest in the box, an old set of keys now completely useless, an old agenda, the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested… things that Sirius doesn't care at all for. And though he knows he is going to throw them away at the first chance he still grabs them and places it in a bag. He is unwilling to leave any part of his life, present or past inside the Ministry of Magic.

He walks away from the archive, and from the Ministry. He walks away from his old life. It is time for his pasts sins to stop dragging him down. When he steps outside, he should be a new man, a free man once again. And there will be no man with authority to tell him what to do. Oh, and how does he love the idea of that.

He reaches the Atrium and instead of turning to the lit fireplaces he walks towards the visitor's entrance. Without an exact reason to come to mind, he feels like walking. The moment he steps outside he feels a rush of happiness and lightness of soul. London sprawls in front of him; once again in his reach.

And for once, he takes the long way _home_.

* * *

1 They're being put in courtrooms one and two because nº10 is the largest courtroom, as is the one that has the capacity to hold the Wizengamot in full. Also, it is deduced that interrogations take place in that floor, as in DH Hermione gets locked up in one minor courtroom that also serves as interrogation room.

2 In Some things Wizards are not as advanced as Muggles. For example, DNA tests don't exist. They have a rudimentary blood tests that can be used to determine if a person is a son from two give people, it is useful for narrowing down from a group of vast people, and can give the blood type. But obviously it is not useful when determining identity amongst a group of close relatives.


	26. Chapter 25: Pardon

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five - Pardon**

The sun is setting; the outer face of old Grimmauld Place nº12 is lit in shades of red and gold. Sirius reaches for the iron doors in front of the steps and softly pushes them open. He walks slowly the few steps up to the threshold and then the door magically opens to him.

The house is ghostly quiet; a figure huddled by the foot of the stairs. It instantly springs up to his feet with the opening of the door, which allows the dying light of the sun to enter to the very depths of the entry Hall. It seems to take Regulus a few seconds to readjust to his surroundings, as he's been dozing by the stairs. Then he notices it is Sirius, who is locking the door.

"They've released you?" he asks nervously. "Have they cleared the charges? Have…"

"Wait a moment!" says Sirius, who doesn't particularly care for another interrogation. "A question at a time, please. Yes I've been released and cleared."

He takes in Regulus' looks. So completely dishevelled he hasn't even shaved... not that there is much to shave, there's never been, just that dark shadow that forms over his upper lip and under his chin. He's untidy, and looks like he's been napping and pacing at regular intervals.

"Have you been here the totality of the almost three days I've been away?" he asks him. Regulus rolls his eyes.

"Not all the time, but I was worried." he says, as if it was an explanation. "You leave me here three days, unable to get out and completely isolated, with no means to know what's going on out there, what did you expect me to do?"

"I'm ever so sorry for all the annoyances I may have caused you." Sirius answers. "But you see, I've been two days in an interrogation room, and I don't think I could have gone and asked to inform my dead brother that I'm alright."

"Any other member of the Order could have passed by."

"Any other member of the Order was just too busy... at least too busy to pass by this dirty den." he adds as he removes his cloak and hangs it.

"And what happened with _everyone else_?" he asks with a sigh. Sirius shrugs.

"They're fine, nothing that can't be healed. Moody got hurt in his leg and it's taking its sweet time to heal. Tonks was hit by a really nasty curse and the healers are still struggling with it. But both of them will be fine." explains as if he is giving the weather report. "Remus was released only this morning. They trust werewolves as little as mad ex-convicts.

"And you?" he asks directly.

"Me what?"

"How's your arm?"

"...Fine, could be better, but fine nonetheless." he finally says, as he lowers himself onto a chair in the kitchen, and starts picking at a loose thread on his bandages. "And you? Any major injures?"

Regulus shakes his head ruefully.

"No, the most severe injury I have is a blue of the size of the Atlantic on my knee. I had to throw myself down because of one of Lestrange's spells, it did pass too close for comfort, and I didn't land quite right." he answers massaging the aforementioned knee. "But I'll be fine, I've been worse."

Sirius looks at him, at his face following his humorous tone of voice, and rubs his eyes tiredly.

"Well, as apparently you _are_ fine I can reprimand you without feeling guilty." says the older brother. "Rabastan Lestrange and Mulciber recognised you, and I would bet my right hand that so did Bellatrix." his countenance is serious. "That was rushed. You should have been more careful."

"I'm sorry." answers Regulus. "But what would you have me do?"

"There's nothing to be sorry about. Just be careful, we can't have them thinking you alive. We can't have _Voldemort_ knowing you're alive. I don't know... disillusion yourself or something of the like... You can kiss your dreary life bye-bye if _He_ finds out."

"He probably will. You said it yourself." he says.

"No he won't. Your mark is gone. He thinks you are dead. No Order dished out any explanation in which you were included. They are weary of me... they'll doubt themselves. Voldemort is an arrogant bastard; he'd cut his own tongue before thinking there can be a flaw in his reasoning or in a spell of his. He'll underestimate our capacity for double-faced behaviour."

"He might."

"He will."

"Let's hope."

"Just don't do it again." Sirius says. "You can't imagine the incredible setback it was to my cause."

Regulus frowns.

"How exactly…?"

"Well... Jugson said that it had been _me_ who attacked him, because he mistook you for me. It was vicious enough to be believable." he says with a self-righteous smirk. "And the aurors caught up that something didn't add up. So I had extra hours of running around in circles with the same questions over and over again."

"They've cleared you nonetheless?" Sirius nods. "And they are going to do it public, or keep it hidden as usual?"

Sirius shrugs.

"Theoretically they are going to make it public, but no doubt it'll be in small lettering in a corner... and there will be no photograph. I made sure of that."

Regulus, smiles. Objectively speaking, it is useful no-one really knows how you look. Fifteen years disappeared out of the public eye, not in recent contact with many... it is tactically good.

"The Prophet is too eager to lick the Ministry's ass to make a big fuss of it." Sirius says.

"Unless Skeeter catches wind of it." Regulus points out.

Sirius grunts in pained agreement. Regulus' fingers run over a strain on the tabletop, for a few moments, his mood pensieve.

"If Jugson gave my name... they surely asked you, didn't they?" he says. "What did you tell them?"

"I lied through my teeth and the veritaserum was already starting to fade, by the time your name came up."

"Have you given thought to what will you do with me... when this ends?" he says.

"You mean if this ends?"

"Aye... if this ends." he corrects.

"What about it?" Sirius says bitterly. "Do you think it'll ever end?"

"No." Regulus answers after a few moments of silence, raisin his head. "It was only a hypothetical question."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." he says.

::::::::::::::

Moody is released from a few days later, but Tonks has to stay for a little longer. The healers say she'll have to stay for a couple more of days. Sirius goes to see her his very first morning as a free man, still savouring the newfound liberty. When he arrives there he finds Remus waiting in the hallway, talking animatedly with Kingsley. The auror is in a temporary leave form the auror Department and has been pulled out of all ongoing investigations, be they related with the battle or not.

"Scrimgeour would throw me to the lions if he could." he says wryly. "I already wasn't in his good graces before... I'll be digging trenches for the longest time."

"Wasn't he wroth enough with you about me?"

"Especially about you." he says. "But you got cleared... so I guess they'll forget about me after a while."

"You might be grateful you're out of the investigation... they spent quite a while questioning me about the other one." he says looking at Shacklebolt meaningfully. "They reached the conclusion that weirdness was on the other side though."

"Luckily for you they didn't ask me under beverage..." he answers discreetly. "It wasn't even mentioned because I was the first one."

"Apparently you must be the only Order member they put under veritaserum." says Lupin clasping his shoulder. "Well done... remember to examine what you say twice from now on."

"Shut up." he says digging his elbow into the werewolf's ribs and looking around only to find the area completely deserted. "What are you doing out here?"

"We were already leaving." they say smiling. "It is family day apparently..."

Sirius grunts his goodbyes and pushes the door of the room open silently.

Nymphadora is propped up on the bed, and on her chest there are bandages that peek from under a loose purple camisole. Beside the bed, a middle-aged couple turns to look at him. The woman is tall and dark-haired and her face looks sad and worried. The man, tall and blonde wears a proud moustache and a close-cropped beard; and is holding his wife's shoulders. Tonks' face lights up when she sees him and her eyes twinkle merrily.

"Ah! There you are! I was wondering if you'd bother coming round... apparently I've been more fun in other occasions than I am." she beckons him closer. "King told me they'd let you go."

"To be honest..." he says smiling. "They didn't have any other choice."

"If you say so..." she says. "You needn't have come... whatever they told you, I'm not dying; I'll be out in a coupla days."

"I did because I felt like it. Because I _can_."

"Savouring it while you can?"

"Something like that. Nice hairdo."

She fingers her hair with an impish smile and changes the light blue streaking the purple with bright obnoxious orange.

"I'm overcompensating." she winks.

"Have you been too bored?" he says. "I should've thought they'd all been here, seeing as no-one's been at Headquarters."

"Nope." she shakes her head. "Besides, we had interrogation rounds right here."

"Ah." he smirks. "and I was going to complain I was the only one to suffer of that."

"Nope... but you riled them up good!" she laughs. "Specially the Boss."

"Scrimgeour is an arsehole. He ought to take his head out of his ass already... alas, but I'm afraid his anatomical defect is chronic. A learned blockhead is a greater blockhead than an ignorant one, unfortunately for you... I don't know how you stand it."

"It's not me that's the problem... the real problem isn't even the job; but when a hex puts a sudden stop to the job that Mum and Dad go into mother-hen mode." she says looking at them sideways. "You interrupted the Ten Reasons Why Being An Auror Is Stupid time of the day... we were when mom starts saying: _Don't talk to me like that young lady, it is a dangerous job. Do I look stupid to you?_"

Sirius looks over at them and smiles at Andromeda as if he just saw her every day, mostly ignoring her watery eyes.

"Well... you know, when your parents are mad and ask you '_Do I look stupid?_' you are not supposed to answer them."

"I... you shouldn't encourage her Sirius." she says softly. For a moment all is very tense, but there is no hostility.

"She needs no-one to encourage her." he tells her. "Whatever she did this time it is her own fault."

"Exactly." Nymphadora says. "Because I am an adult that can make decisions on her own."

"Even if it is to confront your Aunt out from Azkaban and almost get killed?" Andromeda says.

"Honey, she was only doing her job." Ted says.

"No she wasn't doing her job!2"

"Fighting Dark Wizards enters in my job description!"

"There are things that are too dangerous!"

"If we don't nobody will!" she says. "Besides, it is not that I'm not good enough. She did this to me, alright, but she also overcame Sirius, knocked out Kingsley... and escaped Dumbledore!"

Amdromeda's frown is prominent but she lets out a resigned sigh.

"I... alright. Just don't look for her expressly." she concedes. And she looks at Sirius.

"She didn't." he tells her. "I did... but not Dora."

"I heard the healers say Bellatrix singed your arm." Nymphadora says. "You were lucky."

"It'll be okay." he says. "It only hurts like a dragon is chewing on it."

"We both were lucky I guess." she says looking at the bandages peeking out of his sleeve. "Considering she could've killed us..."

"Don't knock on death's door. Ring the bell and run; she hates that." he answers her fondly. "Practice makes perfect. You did very well, considering it was your first time against Death Eaters. But we should stop because this is doing nothing to placate your mother."

"Well I could start wailing how glad I am you're free again... and making sentimental talk instead... and I even can begin to squeal!"

"I'll better leave before you start then." he says, opening his eyes comically wide. "You rest, before Mad-Eye starts reading you the riot act."

Nymphadora groans and sinks back into her pillows.

"Bye then!" two other weak goodbyes are uttered and he leaves. He knows when it is time to leave when his reserves for small talk and ingenious quips start to drain.

He takes his time turning the corner of the corridor, and just as he hoped, after a few moments there are footsteps and a voice calling him back.

"Sirius!"

A nurse passing by watches fearfully at them, as Andromeda pulls up to him. She's different than he remembers, but she is just the same nonetheless. She hasn't gone gray but there are lines of worry around her eyes. She wears a beautiful but practical burgundy robe and a working-day shawl over her shoulders.

She is, has always been, a strong woman; but her eyes are watery, and her smile is thin.

"I'm glad for you." she says. "I just thought you needed to know." He just looks calmly at her, and gives her time to compose herself. "I'm glad that you didn't do it." she says. "For you, and for all of us. Nymphadora... was telling me everything she knows... I need you to tell me. That what she said is true..."

He looks down at her, at her slightly hopeful and anxious face, so like his, in many aspects; at her dark hair, and softer face and silver misty eyes.

"It is."

Her eyes search for his as he says it, she seems to find what she is looking for, and she releases a tremulous breath before smiling softly.

"It was very hard to believe it when they first explained it to me. That you had murdered all those people." she tells him. "And I never, I couldn't keep denying it after a while, but I never understood. I am very sorry... I should've trusted my instincts more."

"There is nothing you could've done." he tells her. "You did the right thing. You've done a fine job with Nymphadora."

"I don't think any of us deserves your forgiveness." she says. "I don't know if I could... we weren't being very nice... standing there without anything nice to say."

"I've got a thick skin."

"No. You've got a thick skull... but I'd like to keep you close, keep you around. You still are the only decent piece of family I got left."

He takes her by the elbow and makes them sit down on a wooden bench.

"My blushes Andromeda. Sad truth... that I am the best you've got left." he chuckles. "Sad Indeed."

"Any family tree produces some lemons, some nuts and a few bad apples. I find being the nuts the better choice by far.

"Wise woman, as ever." he sighs.

From the room, at the other end of the corridor father and daughter laugh raucously.

"I know it is difficult dealing with me on top of Nymphadora's injuries. I understand that you don't know what to make of me. It's alright. I wouldn't either..."

Andromeda sniffs. And forcefully takes his hand, the one of his injured arm.

"No. It's alright. I'll deal with it. We both know that's what I should do and I will." she smiles brokenly. "I'm here and you're here... we have each other, and I have another person to worry about."

"Eeeh..."

"It's alright. You don't have to say anything." she tells him more composed. "The wards you put around the house are still working."

He shakes his head. Happy for once to have put her mind at ease and at the same time thinking of the terrible years she must have passed knowing her house was protected by his magic. Not a tranquilizing thought.

"I thought about lifting them... we tried, but we couldn't." she tells him. "Now I'm glad we couldn't manage."

He'd taken much care of casting wards and protective spells so they'd mount in layers, one on top of the other, instead of merging into one unity. Layers of spells create a buzzing thrum of energy and are volatile, not entirely stable unless the caster is very good. Which he is by the way. _Then_ he merged them. Merged spells are the height of stability, the only problem is they merge into something unpredictable that might be impossible to lift afterwards. Magic is tricky that way.

"I'll check them again if you want." he says.

"No need, but you can, of course." she tightens her grip. "But I'd ask you a favour."

He looks at her, suspecting where she might be going.

"I know Nymphadora is with you and the rest of Dumbledore's people..." she says. "Look after her, alright. Don't let anything bad happen to her."

::::::::::::::

Moody exits the interrogation room; he's been brought here right after being released from St. Mungo. Luckily, the interrogation has been brief. Instead of going to the exit he makes a detour by the Auror Headquarters at level two.

He takes in his surroundings. The cubicles, the flying purple memos; the sound of rustle and the hum of activity. He walks, or rather limps, towards the large group of aurors who are discussing rather loudly around something quite large over a desk.

As he approaches he notices what it is that has them so enthralled. It is a big parchment map, over it, colourful mugs, inkpots and other assorted paraphernalia are moved about like one would a chess piece. He peeks over the shoulder of a lanky auror with a ponytail and glimpses that it is meant to represent the people who were at the Department of Mysteries.

"Williamson, step aside." someone nudges the young auror.

The circle of aurors opens for him and he can see and hear what they are truly talking about.

"There's no way to make this add up in a logical order." he is complaining. – No matter how you look at it, Jugson's statement is the discordant note, he couldn't be where they say he was."

"Let's go over this once more. Avery and Crabbe weren't there because they were felled previously in some other part of the Department. Rodolphus Lestrange was taken down by Black, as well as Dolohov, who had taken Moody previously. Then Bellatrix Lestrange hexed Tonks to sweet oblivion, and overcame Black and Shacklebolt. Lupin got rid of Rabastan Lestrange and Malfoy. Kingsley took down Nott and Rockwood. Neville Longbottom took out McNair..."

"And there's Mulciber and Jugson left, whose opponent is less than clear." says auror Taylor.

"Well, it is reasonable to say that Mulciber was taken down by Dumbledore when he arrived. Jugson couldn't have been taken out by him; presumably he didn't see Dumbeldroe enter, so he must've been already out before the Headmaster made his appearance." answers Harris.

"His injuries... it is almost sure it wasn't Dumbledore."

"Perhaps he was hit accidentally and fell... and cut his face on his way down." proposes Moody with his raspy sandpaper voice. The rest of the table turns to look at the retired auror.

"Were that true, there should be some kind of scratch on some wall, like those made by a rebounding hex, and there were none." answers Dawlish.

"There would be if it had been a rebounding curse, but it could have been a clear shot." retorts Taylor thoughtfully.

"It's really difficult to land a clear curse just by accident, they usually rebound." says another female auror who Moody doesn't know.

"Usually... but back in the 76' a Death Eater sent an Avedra Kedavra straight to me and hit another Death Eater square in the chest, quite by accident, and it wasn't a rebound." says Moody. "You never must make assumptions like that. You take into consideration all your options, and when you have discarded all the improvable ones, if there is only one improvable reason remaining; then it must be it.

The rest withstand his lecture with ill grace, but none tries to contradict him under threat of a rebuke.

"Then how did he cut his face?" finally says Harris.

- Must have been cut by some piece of flying debris." answers Taylor

"But it was a clean cut, more similar to a _sectumsempra_ than a ragged laceration brought by an accidental cut. In any case I think it was spell-induced." Davies says. "Receiving two misdirected hexes is too much of a bad luck for anyone."

"Coincidences don't exist?" Taylor questions.

"Perhaps he was cut during the chase, not during the battle itself." suggests Moody. "God only knows what the Unspeakables have down there."

"That's always an option." says Harris.

"It is either that or start embracing the ever-popular ghost theory." Dawlish drawls. "There is another improvable way to look at it. That there was someone else in that room, who resembled Black. And each of them is equally difficult to prove."

"It could've been someone under Polyjuice potion." adds Taylor.

"So Jugson could mistake his real opponent?"

"Hadn't been established that this was nonsense." Davies asks impatiently.

"That'd be quite the theory." snorts Moody, and nudges the purple inpot that represents himself according to a bright orange label stuck to it. "But don't let McBride hear of it, or you'll never close the case."

"He'll be creating strange hypothesis for months! And I'm not tolerating it." says Harris. "Every time there is a strange case it's the same..."

There were nods of assent.

"This whole business is really shady." comments Taylor.

"It's always shady when Voldemort is in the middle of it." is Moody's gruff response. Dawlish looks pointedly and Mad-Eye, for a few still moments.

"You know that we shouldn't be discussing the case with you. You are a witness."

Moody shrugs it off, his magical eye roving over the other man; and then all of their surroundings. His relatively good humour vanishes. The situation isn't so amusing anymore.

"You obviously don't want me here, even if you're stuck." he growls. "I'd like to know what the hell thinks Scrimgeour that he's teaching you fledglings in auror training. I'll leave this puzzlement to you."

::::::::::::::

"I saw Andy today." Regulus looks up from his tea to Sirius who's making an estimation of the House's stock of floo powder.

"Really?" asks only half-surprised.

"Yes, she looked fine, the same as always."

"I don't really remember her." Regulus reminds him sharply. "I mean, I _do_ remember that she was really kind and nice, but I couldn't tell you what she looked like."

"She looks like Bella would were she sane." comments Sirius. "Which ironically means they don't look alike at all."

Regulus shakes his head forgivingly. "Is that a compliment or an insult?" Sirius releases one of his bark-like laughs. "Because I doubt she'd interpret it as either."

::::::::::::::

Shortly after being released from . She visits first the Ministry Personnel section. After an excruciating session with the shrink, she's already reserved a place for him up there with Scrimgeour, in her list of personal grievances. He's spent an entire hour making her talk about her feelings... as if she wasn't open enough. She thinks it is all a great load of bullshit. But she'll have to keep coming until her evaluation is done.

While she was in the lift she's had to endure three hens from Accounting talking hysterically of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries and Fudge's last days as Minister of Magic. Then, in the Department she catches whispers, and shouts and full-blown conversations from aurors discussing the case of the Department of Mysteries. It's got the vast majority of the Auror Department engaged. She's been forced to keep her face straight. Incoherencies are driving the entire department up the wall. It would be funnier were it not because confusion it is always the first sign of Voldemort.

And then, the McBride paranoia obsession isn't helping at all. The bloodhound has caught scent of it; in provably the first day in ten years he wasn't late to work.

She approaches her desk and sees McBride on his own desk looking over a huge file, just beside her cubicle. He's so absorbed that he doesn't return her cheerful salute. The most logical conclusion would be that he is going over the Department of Mysteries case. But with him, logic never works. She sighs.

That McBride is paying attention to something so intensely is a _very_ _bad_ _sign_. By general rule it is always the same one... if _vox populi_ is correct about it... and it is twenty years old. But no matter, McBride will never give up. She takes a deep breath and pokes her head over the cubicles division, right over his filing cabinet.

"Hello!" she repeats louder.

He startles, and a few parchment rolls stumble around so the space of his cubicle is full of flying paperwork for a few moments. Then he looks up at her face, peeking from behind his singing eggplant. Relief comes quickly when he sees it is her.

"Oh, it's you Tonks." he says somehow relieved. "So you're already up and about?"

"It's been a week!"

"And you're back at it already?" he says sceptically. "Or are you on desk duty?" She sighs and rolls her eyes, today a bright neon blue. "He... desk duty then, eh?" he chuckles.

"Yeah. Until our esteemed _collective conscience_ guy thinks so." she huffs. "It didn't take you long to find it again."

"I overheard Williamson telling Harris to misplace it in homicides again yesterday." he says grumpily. "Whatever they think misplacing Ministry material..."

Tonks laughs, and summons the file up to her; and is infinitely amused when the middle-aged auror grapples in the air for it.

"Why this obsession with this specific case?" she asks.

She pulls open the file ant the name Regulus A. Black glares back at her from the parchment in bright red ink. She blinks, incredulous. How on earth, with all the extra hours she'se done in the Department, and so many jokes at this file's expense has she faild to realise it was about _Regulus_?

"Because I know that something happened to this young man, I just can't prove it." then he looks back at the table morosely. "Because he was only eighteen; and nobody deserves such fate."

And because it had been his first case just out of auror training. She mentally adds. That is something everyone knows. There is this little superstition that's made the rounds, that if you never manage to solve your first case, you'll be a bad auror. She doesn't think McBride is bad at his job, just that he's obsessive and problematic. And she believes this old wives' tale is meant to encourage junior aurors to seek their peer's help and expertise from the beginning or some crap like that.

"I see." she looks on with a smile, trying hard not to crack up. "But, you do you realise that for all that we know he could be in the Bahamas, don't you?"

His fulminating stare might have been intimidating, hadn't she known that it couldn't be directed at her, as she was her favourite person in the department.

"If that's the case." says lowering his voice. "I'd be so pissed."

She laughs at the ridiculous situation, but he's used to her odd antics, as his are weirder and more troublesome than hers.

"Really, you should drop the case. It was years ago, if you didn't solve it then you are not solving it now."

She says, plopping down on her desk, and grabbing her purse from her chair. Ready to call it a day at five o'clock and go home; even if there are still technically five minutes until five o'clock; humming a song happily to herself.

::::::::::::::

The kitchen of Grimmauld place is occupied by random people more often than not, except were there isn't anybody to occupy it. For months, the sporadic reunions have grown sparse.

Bill is leaning on the counter, Arthur is sitting on a chair near his son, engrossed in the Prophet bent on localizing the notification of Sirius' innocence. News of Voldemort's return have spread quickly; it's been printed immediately by the Prophet in big bold letter on the front page. But news of Sirius' acquittal have been omitted over and over. Remus is sitting next to Sirius and a just returned Tonks has come to complete the party of underslept men (and women) slumping with her arms stretched all over the ample expanse of the table.

Sirius, his feet on the table, has made a point of scorning every single news that get read out loud. Regulus is there too, mostly bothered because the tea is far too strong... and trying to water it down without Sirius noticing. In the meantime the conversation has flourished along the lines of the auror investigation and its possible repercussion for the order, but any trace of seriousness is abandoned in favour of non-constructing criticism.

"That guy's unbelievable, he comes in and tells accuses me of being liar because the Death Eaters think differently." says Sirius. "Which I was, lying. But, really? You believe a Death Eater? Everyone knows they are rotten."

"Yes, well at least the Ministry has finally accepted that _he_'s back." says Arthur.

"They took their time." says Remus.

"Yes they did." comments Tonks. "Now Schrimegour is mad at me for knowing where Sirius was all this time and keeping it to myself. They won't let me return to work until I've passed the evaluation, _again_."

"It is worse for me... my seniority only adds insult to injury. He's suggested he'll send me to baby-sit the muggle prime minister. Fudge will agree... I just so know it." says Kingsley sourly.

"Think it this way," says Lupin consolingly. "This time you'll actually have time for the Order, as it'll be a nine-to-five job. You won't be falling asleep on your feet."

"He doesn't fall asleep on his feet." says Tonks. "Although it may be that he does, we just don't notice because his feet are so big that he can stay standing."

"Only junior aurors fall asleep." says Kingsley haughtily, but a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

"Come on, it could be worse." says Tonks. "You know. Office idleness has brought work to me. The mountain apparently got to Mahoma. I've found five aurors who are interested in joining. They actually came up to me."

"Really?" asks Arthur. "Then bring them around to the next meeting."

"Are you nuts?" says Sirus cringing. "We've got to be sure they're not going to back down."

"You told Dumbledore?"

"I told MacGonagall," she says. "She said she'd pass it on. I guess he'll want to have his opinion first. They're good folk though."

"Oh, and I've also found a potential member..." says Bill. "There's a French girl who works with me that is interested... She already said before that if Harry and Dumbledore said it... there had to be a reason."

"Smart girl." says Kingsley.

::::::::::::::

Sirius has come back from an early-evening walk; his mood has improved dramatically from the hours he's spent away from the house recently. In the past week he's been more outside than inside. He's been desperate to leave it for months. Now, that he's been out of its oppressing aura for a while he seems to notice it even more when he comes back.

The hair on his neck bristles as he is led up the stairs. The many portraits on the walls seem to follow his every move. He can feel the sense of being in the house, of magic so ancient that it is all but completely forgotten to most of the Wizarding world. The building is practically a sentient being. It is a similar feeling to then one the primordial grounds of Hogwarts can provide, where everything pulses with magic. But whereas that magic had been comforting and pleasant, warm and enticing; this magic was intimidating and dangerous, wild and solemn. The house has reached a strange symbiosis with the family that inhabited it for so long.

It's been reaching out to him since he first set foot in it. Others might notice, and be equally uncomfortable by its aura; but at the same time they perceive it with less clarity, less strongly, while at the same it is more threatening for them that it is for him. She, the House, has been reaching out to him, extending her tendrils of magic around him. She's been taunting him... and she can and will torment him until he listens to her. She is a part of him, a part of his magic, as she is now tied to him through blood and name since he inherited it. She has a right over him as much as he has a right over her. She exists because he exists, and his magic keeps it and protects it, even if he might not want it. The room appears to have darkened and become colder suddenly, as if the shadows of the corners were following him. He closes his eyes and gives out an exasperated sigh.

She insists, and he ignores her. But today, be it because he's alone, be it because he's had a sudden jolt of inspiration; he's had enough. And instinctively knows exactly what to do. He stands tall in the middle of the hall, the house humming with angry energy. He raises his chin as defiantly as he is capable of. He fills his considerable willpower rush up to meet her, his magic pulling around him like a bright hallo of misty light.

As if sensing that Sirius cannot be intimidated, the house's magic shifts and realigns. The house can no longer fight back against him. He can feel it deep in his bones. He is not struggling in the grips of Grimmauld Place. Sirius owns this place. Sirius is still defiant towards his ancestry; the old traditions, but he has gained acceptance over it, and with acceptance comes control. Grimmauld can challenge him no more. The change is unappreciable to the naked eye, but he can feel it like ripples on a pool. He feels how the old building settles and is finally attuned to him. The feel of the air, the tang of humidity in it, is almost gone.

Doubtfully there will ever be anyone who really knows what this house meant to Sirius. For him, this ghastly, decrepit insane old mausoleum at Grimmauld Place had been everything he hated about himself. It represented the ineradicable taint, the original sin, he'd spent a lifetime fearing might be lurking in his blood. His worst fear. In twenty years, he'd never been so afraid of anything else. But now also, it could be used for honourable purposes.

"What's going on?"

From above, on the stairs Remus' voice rings clearly about, and his eyes land on him. He is in a dressing gown, and is squinting friend. Sirius knows he must look stupid standing there in the middle of the landing... one step away of talking to himself.

"Nothing." he says quickly. "Old Grimmauld and I were just having a chat."

Lupin raises an eyebrow, sending it sky-rocketing into his hairline. Nonetheless Sirius' answer, well-used as he is to his riddles, is almost amusing.

"Did she answer?"

"What do you think?" he says.

"The air seems... lighter." Lupin comments.

"One of the two had to bend over... and it wasn't going to be me." he sentences.

Remus smiles at his friend; it is an easy thing to do. To smile at Sirius as if in complicity.

Sirius sometimes shies away from his friend, when his insight is too difficult to withstand anymore. To Remus the biggest change on his old friend have been the eyes. The Padfoot of his youth had been a completely different man to the one standing in front of him, and yet they are one and the same. Padfoot is gone, but Sirius remains, he who has always been there hiding in the background. Eyes that previously shone with emotion, and often mischief, had seemed deadened and cold for months, although if one looked deep enough and hard enough, the spark was still there, not as bright as it had been, but still, the potential to heal was there. He'd smiled that half-peaceful, half-haunted kind of smile that only people who have overcome the darkness but still feel it lingering in them can smile. And he understands it. Now the sparkle of life has come back into Sirius' eyes. It burns bright and clear, searing with the vitality of a life brighter than ever before, like a man reborn. The fire inside of him is like a beacon into the subdued world that surrounds him. Sirius moves now, and it is like a hurricane is trapped inside of skin, all frantic power and whirling winds of energy waiting to slip free and blow down everything in his path. Restless energy buzzing in the night.

"I think I might have been looking it from the wrong perspective." he tells his friend. "I think I've been trying too hard to leave it all behind... if you cannot go over the mountain, then one shall pass under the mountain."

"Do you realise there is no portrait now to bring this eloquence about."

It must have been a daunting task, to try to rise above this stagnant environment and try to change oneself, as Sirius had attempted to do. It should have earned him admiration and respect, not abhorrence and accusation, or the ease of condemnation. Even from himself, that it is what he had gotten, what he'd been subjected to. Yet in spite of this he showed honour and integrity; and a great depth of feeling and passion for those he loved, for what mattered to him.

He'd had admirable qualities, gifts of life and nature, he loved unguardedly, intensely, unconditionally. He was proud and direct and had no fear of rejection from strangers and random people he might cross in the street. He wasn't ashamed of himself, not of his choices, not of his ideas, and certainly, not of his friends. In the cold light of day he was no better treated, than Remus could've ever been. An odd hybrid between a hero and a leper. Both were monsters by others' word, but Sirius' had been a ghost of a reputation that still clung to him, magnified by lies and mistakes.

Yet Sirius was no saint; his intensity of feeling took all the complete range of emotions, they were marvellous the depths his hatred could assimilate. Its malevolence caused him moments of doubt, the soul searching he subjected himself to on a regular basis did him incommensurable harm. Sirius's instincts governed the way he perceived things, and though they were very honed instincts, reliable, from the outside looking in, the reason was not always clear why he hated with such alacrity. He found it hard to cast off the old indoctrination and teachings of his upbringing, which at times became a liability, and at times had saved his life.

With age, the fearlessness of youth and the sincere sharing of his person had been replaced and circumstance with reticent cynicism. His affections where hidden in bravado, he feigned interest, and whereas before he had spoken superficially with regard to the dogma and insidiousness of his home life... like one big joke, something not worth remembering. In his interminable hours in Grimmauld Place, he had come to some form of acceptance of his roots, and the last person to catch on had been Sirius.

"I guess... there is one point when you have to accept your burdens and carry them as gracefully as you can."

"Do you want to talk?"

"It... Yeah. The problem is her, it has always been her. Until now the house had been her, she's that difficult to scrub off."

Lupin leans over the handrail to listen and Sirius sits down on the first marble steps, where he was standing.

"I grew to hate her. No, wait, that isn't quite right; I hated what she meant in my life, her belief system. But she is my mother; can you really hate your mother? You can try, I suppose. You can partially succeed... up until you believe it most of the time." he sighs. "You can't imagine how screwed up it leaves you."

There is no wanting of a reply on his part. To this day it still leaves confused feelings in him, so twisted and gnarled he can't even tell them apart. What has changed is what he can admit of them.

"I know I made her life hard, a living hell. It must have been hard for her, to have so many expectations for her offspring, things that in her eyes are only good things that a mother of her standing should wish for her sons. Things... out of my power to control made her think I was dishonouring all that she stood for, making a mockery of my talents and intellect to the point she saw me as wilfully stupid and rebellious. I could not have changed those circumstances even if I had wanted to. The constant alienation between us drove her to hate what I had become and in turn I began to hate all this." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Yet we were still bound by the ties of mother and son, how could we not."

He looks with his eyes unfocused to some faraway point on the far wall.

"It was quite irrational to hate all this so, when I don't feel comfortable in another place either... it is most inconvenient."

"You didn't chose this path... you were set upon it." says Remus knowingly. "Hey it happened to me too... I certainly didn't plan on becoming a werewolf either. We have to stop thinking over what might've been... who knows if I weren't a werewolf I might be a totally overbearing jerk."

"Who says you aren't?" he chuckles. "I didn't go to Hogwarts with my mind set on rebelling against all that had been expected of me. It had never even crossed my mind. There was a time when I was everything my mother had wished me to be. I was the heir apparent to the House of Black, and I knew it. I knew what was expected of me, and I relished in the idea of what life would be like for me."

"The little prince. he replies with sly grin.

"You should have seen me, you'd have been impressed, believe me. I was charm personified, a self-possessed, precociously arrogant, little sod."

"Uh, no... you were too startled to be anything but startled." he tells him.

"It was very difficult to take all the changes in my life in stride." he sighs. "I am not so sure I have changed. I am still the same arrogant little bastard I was brought up to be. I tried to change for all of you... I was tiring of disappointing. Live is seldom as you plan it, is it?"

The crumbles Sirius throws of his personal background to other people are rare like gems, and even more difficult to get your hands onto. They offer precious insight into Sirius' world. A strange world it is, full of ancient customs, guilt, old-fashioned moral codes and rebellious thoughts of freedom. Remus understands why Sirius tried to define himself through his daring and crazy ideas.

"This doesn't change the fact that there are people who should never have become parents, and my parents are amongst them."

Sirius hides form the ugliness of his life by hiding it behind a facade. Childhood can be so damaging in many ways, when a child cannot be a child. But in their younger days, how could they know that Sirius' desire for mischievous fun, was to drive away inner demons he could not live with but that would not leave him either?

"You truly are a mess." Remus says to his friend. "Although mixed feelings are acceptable, you have to remember you hated this so much you ran away from home. To get over it you have to understand, not to make excuses for her. They _were_ that bad and you have a right to be angry about it."

"But maybe I don't want to; I am very tired of fighting with myself over this." he says. "Being angry takes more energy that I want to spare. I ran away from home because of the disappointment. The way they spoke around me, it became impossible to live with, and I ran away before I did something I might regret."

"Many people clash with their parents' expectations." Remus tells him. "But threat of major injury doesn't hang over their heads."

"He wasn't so bad you know." Sirius says, breaking the silence and apparently unconcerned with Remus' lack of response. "Not as bad as Mother. At least he did actually think he was doing the best thing for Reg and me. Not like Mother, only wanted us to measure of an image of ourselves. Father wasn't doing it simply for tradition or our place in society; even if they were important to him. He truly thought that he was doing the best."

"All parents make mistakes." Remus agreed quietly.

Sirius grins at him in the dark, a touch melancholically. "Some more than others." he said. "But at least he tried."

"If admitting so makes you feel better..."

"With my mother it was a different matter. It became a matter of life or death. Or more correctly in this case, of life after death: now that she's dead, I have a life."

His words ring true in the stillness of the hour.

"Hmh... was this brought on by any special occasion?"

"No... just thinking." he says. "It doesn't hurt that much. I think I needed a wider forgiveness before forgiving myself. And I needed to forgive myself before I could forgive anyone else."


	27. Chapter 26: Commissioned Men

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Twenty-Six – Commissioned Men**

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place is full for the first time in months with. The totality of the Order of the Phoenix is present, including some new members and the ever elusive Aberforth Dumbedore. There are the Weasleys, this time including Fred and George, that have finally joined in a lighter capacity for the moment, Tonks, Moody, McGonagall, Snape, much to Sirius' displeasure, Lupin, the Blacks, Jones, Vance, Diggle, Fletcher, Kinglsey, a new girl who's talking to Bill Weasley and four aurors that just joined some days ago with Dumbledore's approval.

Everyone sits down when Dumbledore enters the room, tall and grim, his white beard flowing behind him. He takes seat at the head of the table and addressed to everyone there.

"Good morning to everyone." he greets them pleasantly, nonetheless. "It is only fair that I first congratulate everyone present for a job well done at the Department of Mysteries. Given the circumstances, the outcome couldn't have been better."

Subdued claps fill the room.

"We captured almost the totality of the combatant Death Eaters" he continues, "...And we lost no-one, which is a great achievement."

"No-one needed to go there had Potter not decided to flaunt every safety measure placed on him, Dumbledore." Snape says, with his usually disagreeable demeanour.

"Of, course not Severus, but Voldemort's fooled mightier wizards than Harry." says Dumbledore calmly.

"The Order can't be always running after him." Snape insists. "Potter's too used to people slapping him on the back and congratulating for his dumb luck."

"There wouldn't have been any dumb luck if _someone_ hadn't stopped teaching him occlumancy." Regulus snaps impatiently, throwing him a venomous glare. Sirius, by his side, sends him a pointed glare.

"But hadn't it happened the Ministry wouldn't know You-Know-Who is back." says Hestia timidly.

Some nods of assent from other members supported her practical vision.

"We'll have to work on _that_, safety is precarious." says Moody, his electric blue eye spinning madly. "But the biggest problem we have now is that things are going to take a turn for the worst very fast."

"Voldemort isn't going to try to pass unnoticed from now on." says Arthur pessimistically.

"And Lestrange escaped." Moody says.

"I think," Kingsley says "that there's very little we can do about that except be always on our guard. I say we have to put emphasis in making sure the bunch in Azkaban stay in Azkaban."

"That is a problem we have with the Dementors." Emmeline points out. "The Ministry can hardly do anything about that."

"But we need the Ministry to try and at least keep the place safe!" Diggle complains. "They aren't going to this time either, are they?"

"You are very optimistic, you know?" says Dora in a sing-song voice.

"No. The only around who's optimistic is usually you." Sirius tells her, sardonically. "The rest of us would rather keep our heads on the ground."

"Not under the ground!" one of the twins says, probably Fred.

"Or grounded by the Ministry!" George says cheerfully.

"You mean they'll probably bury Fudge alive, don't you?" a voice from the other end says, which Sirius can't make out.

"Gentlemen!" Dumbleodre finally breaks into the fray. "Please! There are important matters to review."

The room finally quiets down to a bearable level, with only some hushed whispers here and there.

"It is important to acknowledge that a new stage of Voldemort's plans is about to start. There will be war this time." he tells them gravely. "Now that everyone knows about Lord Voldemort's return, open war has begun. Incidents and attacks will happen in great numbers and they won't try to hush them up."

A shiver of unease passes through the concurrence.

"Things that are to come are not only unknown but also dangerous, and I caution anyone who might be too paralyzed with fear for his life to leave now." he says eyeing them carefully. "No one will think of you any less."

Mundungus Fletcher squirms a little on his chair, but no-one says anything nor moves from their place.

"I was also speaking to the newer members of the Order."

"Why should we?" says the dark-skinned woman, Davies, rising from her seat. "We came here knowing things were going to worsen. That is why we came."

"There was no offense meant, auror Davies." the elderly Headmaster says kindly.

"None taken." she answers stoically.

"To the more veteran members of the Order," he motions towards the newer recruits. "these are Rhiannon Davies, Frank Williamson, Norman Taylor and Gregory Harris. And this is Miss Delacour. They've come to join the Order. And as I'm sure you already know them, Fred and George Weasley, will be attending meetings from now on."

Both the twins grin outrageously wide and wave hello enthusiastically. Other members nod in acquiescence, or merely scrutinise the newcomers with waning interest, but none discus their admittance.

"The reason this meeting had to be scheduled this early is because we are faced with a new situation our organization isn't prepared to absorb right away." he says matter-of-factly. "Voldemort..."

Another collective shudder follows this, and Dumbledore interrupts his speech, to look at them kindly.

"I'm sure everyone present has already heard me say innumerable times that fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. Do not fear to use Voldemort's name, and he'll have no power over you."

A few mumbles can be heard, although it can't be discerned if they are in agreement or in disagreement with Dumbledore's words.

"There is the guard rooster that has to be brought up to date to include as many active new members as we get. Then there are new places that will need to be monitored tightly, in prevention of possible attacks. Especially the most concurred areas, wizarding and muggle alike. How we do it might need further discussion.

"Do you mean we'll be covering more places, professor?" asks Podmore. "...won't that stretch us even thinner?"

"There are five more people here... seven with Fred and George, and those two can cover most of the watch over Diagon Alley because their shop's there..." Bill says.

"But they can't have Knocturn Alley watched." protests Arthur.

"We'll have someone else do it Weasley!" barks Moody.

"Plus," shouts Bill, trying to resume his previous thread of thought. "Sirius will be on the field from now on, even if he's not exactly a new addition..."

Dumbledore takes the chance the few seconds of silence bring, and continues with his explanations.

"We will redistribute the guard duty more effectively now that we can do so more openly. Redistribution will affect all present and will stretch to cover all critical places. In the end a few people become free to take up some more compromised positions, which we are in very dire need of." he says. "But not everyone in the Order will be included in the guard rooster, now or in the foreseeable future. For once, even if Sirius is back to an active role in the Order, you'll keep him out of guard duty."

Moody nods gravely, resignedly, even sombrely, but other people mostly stares. Lupin looks at him with something akin to pity, and he looks a bit squeamish.

"Charlie Weasley needs a bit of help," Dumbledore clarified. "what little information Mr. Weasley has provided us with about the outlook of things in Central Europe, it will soon be insufficient. Voldemort's attentions have been turned inwards until now, but his efforts are going to start projecting outwards sooner rather than later. And monitoring like-minded groups in the continent might help us avoid a full-blown war."

"Charlie hasn't got so many contacts." comments Bill, under his mother's glare. "just students, and a few dragon-crazy people."

"That's why if Sirius agrees, he'll be resuming his old post outside of England as soon as possible." the Headmaster says.

"Do you think this wise?" says Diggle nervously.

Sirius catches himself in time so he doesn't quite dive for the little nervous man's proverbial jugular; but he glares at him at his heart's content, with a glare capable of both freezing the insides of a dragon and making another human being spontaneously combust at the same time. Anger suffuses him when he instantly realises that his acquittal isn't going to change many things. He had determined long months ago that the place between pity and fear was a very lonely one. He feels eyes on himself, and shrugs in what would have been a gesture of sangfroid if the volatile spark in his eyes hadn't betrayed him.

"I mean, he's been lots of years..." he says apologetically. "...inactive."

"Haven't we all?" says Lupin calmly. "The last months haven't been very active; at least in the sense _action_ is going to take from now on."

"Except for Arthur." mumbles Molly, who's still sour over the attack over Christmas.

"The aurors haven't been inactive." Hestia says reasonably. "And it's kind of their work, isn't it?"

The auror section of the table remains silent as a grave.

"Yes, only that they are usually the worst people for the job, considering how they have auror tattooed in flashy glitter all over their foreheads." Sirius says dryly.

"That isn't a good reason." Dumbledore cuts in before any possible outraged protests. "We cannot afford to send anyone with a job in the Ministry. It is a most relevant point when making this decision."

This at least seems to have everyone in agreement.

"That's why I think Sirius is the less risqué candidate." he continues. "He's done it before, he knows the ropes and, has no job to come back to, and his comings and goings will pass vastly unnoticed."

"They'll watch him too." says auror Harris, inclining his head.

"Yes, but I don't have any boss that can complain about how I've begun to systematically disappear, or any friends to go babbling about how strange I've been of late." Sirius answers impatiently. "Besides, any authority you have as an auror here, you won't have there, and they might accuse the British Ministry of interfering with their affairs, and have a formal complaint in front of Fudge... and how do you think he'd take that?"

The auror rises his hands in a conciliatory manner.

"I assume you won't mind." Dumbledore says to Sirius, and when he shakes his head in the negative, the old man seems satisfied. "Well, you know how it works. You're not actually supposed to do anything differently, just gathering of intelligence for the moment, and verification if possible. Just minimal communication even with the Order, nothing traceable; and don't stay too long on the same place, or you're likely to become a target.

Sirius nods, and tries politely not to look too bored, or irritated, for the matter.

"I trust you still remember how to undertake this job."

"I do."

"You might try and include Charlie Weasley's few informants along with yours; a preliminary meeting with him could ease things for you." the Old Professor suggests. "Which brings me to the last point we need to discuss about our intelligence outside of the Isles. I can't send you alone. I know you did everything by yourself after Dorcas' death but it's been long years, and it's not healthy."

People's heads swivelled around to look at him, suddenly interested and curious; except for Lupin who is pointedly not looking.

"You can't already start pushing yourself like that from the very start. And you'll be too far away to take any possible help you need from the Order if anything goes wrong. Understand me, you're very good at what you do, but you are human. I won't take a no for an answer."

Sirius sighs in defeat, and accepts he'll be straightening blunders from an inexpert companion for the foreseeable future. But as reasonable as it all seems, he understand that in the subtext, Dumbledore doesn't want him getting out of control.

"So we'll have to invest another person in this?" asks the blond reedy auror, whose name is Taylor.

"Yes, it will be a necessity I'm afraid." he says.

"Dolohov was one of the few who roved Europe back then." says Emmeline, who has been visibly saddened by the mention of Dorcas Meadowes. "So was Karkakoff."

Who's dead, and that is one less problem they have, Sirius things darkly.

"We will need someone with knowledge of languages." Dumbledore offers out loud. "Who won't be too conspicuous in the background scene of wizarding Europe, capable of dealing adequately with the authority if necessary and competent in self-defence; preferably someone that we'd have on call in case of an attack by Death Eaters if it happened here."

The silence was absolutely deafening, either because all felt quite inadequate or because the prospect of working with Sirius wasn't appealing.

"I zpeak French." says the Delacour girl in something that loosely resembles English, and an apprehensive face. Dumbledore smiles gently, but waves her off, and she retreats back into Bill's side quickly.

"You do already have someone in mind don't you, Professor?" says Sirius resigned.

"Yes, yes, I do." Dumbledore smiles through his beard. His twinkling eyes alight themselves on Regulus who squirms uneasily in his chair, until the very pressure of the look makes him speak up.

"I do speak German and French." he finally mumbles.

Sirius shoots an incredulous look at Dumbledore, while Kingsley's speculative stare focuses on them both.

"It could work." He pronounces suddenly. Sirius mumbles in grudging agreement.

"I've been hoping you'd say that." Dumbeldore says brightly. The aurors looks are all centred upon them.

"Are you certain those two will have anything done instead, of going at each other's throats?" says Professor McGonagall with an air of tried patience, and everyone looks at her because she rarely talks about anything that doesn't concern Hogwarts.

"I'm perfectly capable of enduring disagreeable arrangements when circumstances require it." Sirius says nonchalantly, and ignores Regulus' dark look. "We'll both be in our best behaviour."

"No, listen all," says Kingsley. "It makes sense. Right now it only makes sense we have Regulus leave England again after the last close call. This way he might also prove useful to us. If he disappears from England and isn't seen in a while even Death Eaters will forget they've seen him eventually."

"And what about Dolohov?" asks Nymphadora.

"We'll be in disguise most of the time. I don't think he'll pick up that it's him." Sirius grudgingly admits. "He might pick up I'm not alone, but not exactly who's got my back."

"I'm as suited as anyone else to do this." Regulus says looking everyone defiantly. Now that he's offered he isn't about to back down, he won't have anyone tell him he can't do something like this. And he sees his chance to escape Grimmauld Place, even if the thought of working with Sirius is a little scary. "I've lived in Germany for the last twenty years. It's better than anyone else has to offer."

Snape sneers contemptuously, but at least sneers silently and doesn't say anything else to further annoy Regulus.

"Sirius will come this Monday around my office. We'll discuss things more in-depth." Dumbledore concludes satisfied. "Remus, I'm afraid it will be a necessity that you return to your post with the ferals for a time."

Lupin visibly flinches at these words, but nods obediently. And looks fixedly at the patterns of the wood on the table surface in front of him.

"Of course, Professor."

"I think you know very well how this is going to go, so I'm going to spare further comments about this, and we'll discuss it briefly later on." Dubledore says kindly to the forlorn werewolf.

Nobody dares discuss anything about Lupin's new assignment. There is absolutely no-one willing to take on a mission requiring dealing regularly with werewolves. And besides, who'd be better for it that another werewolf? Sirius understands this and doesn't comment either, but feels a slight twinge of sympathy for his old friend. Maybe he's getting old, because all those many years ago he'd been furious about it. Of course he still thinks it won't accomplish anything useful. Werewolves are not beasts, they can be talked to and can be reasoned with; only not the ferals. By definition, anyone willing to go feral will support Voldemort, and there's nothing to do about it.

"And you Severus will continue on as you've already been doing." he says briefly to his sombre potions master.

"Now, Moody and Kingsley, you'll take charge of the guard duty from now on. You'll organise them and take charge of Sirius' work up until today, but you might need to do it conjointly. It would be most important to fit them around everyone's working hours." he briefs them succinctly. "I want people watching around Hogsmade, Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. Alastor if you please..."

Then he sits back and Moody rises, and addresses the rest of the Order.

"Guards will rotate; no one will cover the same area, the same day and the same hour more than once; as long as it is possible. In any case you have to remember not to attract any attention to yourselves, nor become too familiar a fixture in a setting." his talking sounds quite alike to barking, and his magic eye remains fixed on Mundungus Fletcher. "And I repeat, you aren't to be spotted! You can't always walk the same path; go to the same store, or to the same pub. If they spot you, you're dead."

He pauses to catch his breath, and puffs up, like he's drilling in some cadets from the Auror Academy. The new auror recruits look at him in between amusement and resignation.

"I can't stress enough how important concealment is. Disguise!" he tells them. "And remember that if you are assigned a partner it is for a reason, no matter what you think of them. You are never to leave your post during a guard, not even if your grandma's died, or the end of the world's comming!" Mad-eye Moody barks, this time looking directly at Mondungus with a face that reminds Sirius strongly of something sour. Dumbledore is all the while fiddling with his thumbs, and Sirius can't help but wonder if he lets Moody have his moment because he doesn't have the stomach for drilling in new recruits, or because he'd rather play good boss while he lets Moody play bad boss.

Kinglsey, takes the opportunity of a momentary pause to interfere; as he's probably the one besides Sirius who knows how thin they're stretched because he's been helping him and looking in for substitutes when the need arose.

"However we do it," says the black man. "there are more hours and posts to cover than people able to work them, so it is likely everyone will be pulling doubles."

Dedalus, frowns and scratches behind his ear, his diminutive self balancing on the edge of a straight-back chair.

"You are telling us that we are sending forces outside." he sighs and points at Lupin and Black. "When we are lack people to cover home ground?"

Moody rolls his good eye, and Kingsley seems resigned that someone had to be asking this question.

"Those are necessary posts." says Moody taxatively, "and I assure you don't want to be in charge of any of them. As a general rule compromised positions don't let you sleep much, I can tell you! It is far more hours of work that you'll be getting, you'd be in constant movement and possible have to face down many a dangerous situation. You couldn't go home to see the family."

Diggle squirms in his chair, and shakes his head vigorously. Dumbledore then gestures for Moody to sit down and speaks again.

"There is only one last thing, and you'll be free to go today. There'll need to be people at King's Cross the 1st July. The last thing we want is an attack on a public space, and least of all on Harry. I don't think it is likely that it will happen, but there's always a possibility if we leave it to chance. At least a few of you have to make sure that Harry is delivered safely to the Dursley's." then he turns to Sirius. "I think you should be there."

Sirius looks up at him in surprise. "Am I not supposed to leave England as soon as possible?"

"We can wait until then." he smiles at him. "I think, you might need the chance to say goodbye. And in any case it will be better for all if you wait until I have smoothed matters with Scrimgeour... who looks like he's going to be the next Minister..."

Tonks groans loudly and eloquently thumps her head against the table in heartfelt protest.

"...the Ministry will be at least installing protection wards around the Houses of those who request it with enough anticipation. Of course you can always cast them yourselves. But it will be for the best if you wait until the Ministry makes it official to other countries that Lord Voldemort's back. It might take a week." Sirius nods, grudgingly grateful to be allowed this small mercy. "Who else would go?"

"We have to be there anyway, for Ron and Ginny." Mrs Weasley says

"I'll go." says Lupin, and adds under his breath. "Might as well say my goodbyes too."

"Me too!" says Tonks cheerfully, and Dumbledore agrees immediately.

"I'll join in." says Moody, and even if Bill was going to volunteer too, he shuts up because he isn't going to cross Moody on this.

People start to rise and edge out of the room. It is soon filled with the noise of moving chairs. Dumbledore and McGonagall leave promptly with most of Hogwarts personnel.

::::::::::::::

The rest of the people take their time to clean the room. Chatter grows louder and people continue to flutter around asking each other a variety of questions and discussing the meeting amongst them. Sirius sighs annoyed.

"The meeting's over!" he shouts to the room at large. "Clear the bloody room! If you're not staying over to dinner, granted."

Most people shake their heads at him, as if he's just confirmed their suspicions that he isn't quite right in the head. Lupin instead, laughs quietly at the ways of his friend.

"I'm staying! Keep me a ration of shepherd's pie Molly!" shouts Tonks as she leaves proclaiming loudly that she needs to go to the bathroom.

Molly has started to heat dinner as Bill, Arthur and Lupin help with setting up the table. Kingsley joins Sirius in one corner.

"Where do you have all those papers that are supposed to help keep track of the shifts?" he tells him. Sirius smiles wryly. The gesture, empty of scorn or derision, sits strangely on his face; accustomed as they all are to seeing him scowling at all times. He swirls around and opens and closes some drawers until he produces a thick sheaf of papers he's kept for the record. He's looked at them regularly, hunting for strange fallouts and too many coincidences that might point out another traitor, for example.

"Here." he says. "I'm passing this honourable mound of holy papers unto you, Auror Shacklebolt."

Kingsley seems tempted to hit him in the head with them, that is, until someone interrupts his inner debate whether he ought to or not.

"Kingsley, is it better than the canteen here?" Davies asks from her chair, from which she hasn't stood up. Her cloak is still thrown over the back, and her Ministry issue Auror red robes are open halfway revealing a very nice emerald green top.

"A thousand times better." he answers as he starts placing glasses on the table. "You'll find Molly's quite the exceptional cook."

"Free good food. I think I'm staying." proclaims Williamson with alacrity, and even if Harris leaves, Taylor stays too. Fleur looks shyly at Bill, still not knowing what to do, and he seems to somehow convince her to stay; much to Fred and George's hilarity.

"Aren't you going to help?" says Remus as he passes by his friend's side, and Sirius shrugs.

"This is my house and my table. I have the right to be served." says, clearly with the intention of annoying him.

"And that was so absolutely not rude." Regulus tells him, from where he sits just as idle.

Sirius kicks the legs of Regulus' chair from under him in retaliation, landing him on the floor. The mirthful whoops of the twins can be heard in the background, as well as some yelling from Molly.

"Auch." he complains dryly, and he stands up with as much dignity as can be had from someone who's just had a completely undignified fall. But he does refrain of making a bigger spectacle than they already have and shoots his brother an evil glare.

Remus smiles and sniggers while trying, quite unsuccessfully to hide his mirth from Molly Weasley and her wrathful spoon. And while all this buffoonery goes on, it leaves time for Tonks to go up three floors and descend them again, before anyone's quite seated for dinner.

"Heeya Rhys." she salutes the other she-auror, cheerfully. "I didn't think you'd be staying this early on."

"Are there any unspoken rules about it?" she smiles back, and she seems less severe then.

"Nah, only that not everybody does."

"Oh, well you do." Taylor tells her.

"Are you kidding, I practically live here." Tonks sets him in the right. "Must be because of the charming company."

She says brightly, and her vibrant hair turns to a strident fuchsia. Williamson gives her a thumbs up and she throws him a piece of balled parchment she has on her robes pocket.

"Looks like half of the auror force has just moved in." Arthur comments at the other Magical Law Enforcement employees.

"Well I guess it is the case... what I can't find an explanation for is why we weren't all approached soonest." Davies tells them, but looks especially at Kingsley.

"Moody approached me, I almost already knew about it from before." he tells her. "I couldn't know how any of you would respond."

"You couldn't?" she exclaims. "We are _aurors_. And you approached Tonks!"

"No, Rhys. I approached Kingsley." Tonks clarifies. "Everyone had heard about the rumours, even me. And I happened to catch wind that King was meeting more often with Arthur that was really necessary."

"And she questioned me pretty bluntly about it." he says.

"And any of us would have joined you with enough proof." she insists.

"There was no proof, Davies." Kingsley says. "Besides a few other sticky not-quite legal asides to top it off."

"Still you should have known better."

Just then Mrs Weasley starts serving dinner and everyone finds a suitable distraction. That is until Sirius decides that he's been quite too civil with everyone for this evening.

"Have you ever noticed that nothing's impossible for those that don't have to do it?" he asks rhetorically to the room. He's fixed with some warning looks but, his intervention seems to draw all the attention from the aurors who've been ignoring his presence quite successfully up until then.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Taylor asks offended.

"I mean what I said." he says. "You aren't Kingsley, and you weren't approached, and by whatever the reason the question you have to ask yourself first is what I would have done had you been Kingsley?"

"I would've asked." Davies says firmly.

"It is rather important being truthful." he tells her condescendingly, which seems to tick her off. "That is the big dilemma with trust issues. But you really aren't entitled to hold a grudge for a measure you yourself would have taken given the circumstances."

"The thing is I _wouldn't, _Black." she emphasizes.

"Then you are a fool." Sirius sentences.

"I am most definitely _not_." she snaps back.

"There are, generally speaking, of course, three sides to any argument: your side, my side and the right side." Sirius says leaning back on his uncomfortable straight-back chair. "The last one, is always, most unfortunately, always a mystery... which always makes any argument rather pointless."

"If so, then why do you enjoy picking them up so much?" Lupin tells him, diverting his attention from the rather frazzled auror.

"I enjoy arguing for the argument's sake." Sirius answers solemnly, but there is a volatile spark in his eyes. "I just don't expect them to clear anything up."

"Sirius, that particular excuse to your contentiousness is getting old."

"Just like you, old boy." deadpans the grey-eyed man.

"Whatever."

"You are a bit insane, Sirius." Nymphadora says smiling widely, and chewing on her dinner distractedly.

"All things considered, insanity may be the only reasonable alternative he's got to psycho madman." Regulus peeps in.

"Reg, if you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague, will you." Sirius says with a particular brand of clipped tones that Regulus finds peculiarly irritating.

A prickling at the back of his head makes Regulus raise his head from his meal, and finds half the room looking at him sombrely, as if his presence had finally registered, and had been duly noted.

"Ehem." Tonks clears his throat. "Guys, maybe introductions aren't necessary, but... the asshole is Sirius, this is Remus, the resident werewolf, and this is Regulus."

"Unemployed resident werewolf." Lupin points quietly out.

"It won't be for long I'm sure." says Mrs Weasley kindly.

"I don't think so." he says resignedly. "No witch or wizard is allowed to accept regular paid work in a Muggle job, for a Muggle employer, or in Muggle surroundings..."

"Section 12 Clause 4 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy." Sirius provides for him.

"Yes. And wizards don't like to hire werewolves."

"Yeah, okay; whatever. But I remember clearly that Black said you were dead." Davies points sourly at Regulus. "And you were at the Department of Mysteries, after all!"

"Yes he was. Yes I did." Sirius answers flippantly. "But I obviously lied."

"Under _Veritaserum_?" Williamson finally asks the question that's been irking him for days on end.

"_Veritaserum_ can be fooled." Regulus points out. "And Sirius is a very good liar."

"You are not being helpful." Sirius succinctly tells him.

"Yes, we are aurors, we do know that." Davies says. "What truly bothers me is that he did cover up for a presumed Death Eater!"

"He's a member of the Order, Rhys." says Tonks.

"I wasn't quite the only one to do the covering up, even if my deceit was the only one that went further than the sin of omission, Davies." Sirius points out.

"_Veritaserum_ doesn't affect a person in any different way an Imperius does." Lupin points out in his reasonable professor's tone. "Beating it only requires a strong will... and possibly occlumancy skills."

"Occlumancy, the overcareful rearrangement of an essentially chaotic mental landscape against intrusion." Sirius quips. "Very useful, in fact."

Taylor shakes his head. "First, there is all that evidence that points to Mr Black here being dead..."

"Yes, circumstantial evidence does tend to make sense however you spin it." Sirius drawls.

"...they concluded he'd bled on that floor, and... where did the reported blood come from anyway?"

"It was mine; I put it there, in that cottage." says Sirius. "We do share the same set of parents."

"And that's why blood tests were positive?" asks Tonks, turning to them.

"He wasn't there." Sirius says. Regulus shakes his head no. "I don't even know what you speak of."

"And he wasn't a Death Eater? Why lie about that?" Some people look amongst them and then at Regulus.

"I was." he says. "Twenty years ago."

"And that is supposed to be reassuring?"

"It is supposed to be a fact." says Regulus snappily. "I am with the Order."

"He has Dumbledore's trust, and mine." says Sirius with finality. "He's no longer a Death Eater, he turned to the Order on his own, without any kind of coercion."

"When you were losing." Regulus reminds them.

"When we were losing." he concedes. "We have as much proof of loyalties as we are ever to get from anyone. Right now there is as much proof about his innocence as there is that you are not going to resign tomorrow."

"I am not and ex-Death Eater."

"We don't stick to Ministry standards." Lupin speaks, for a moment, gesturing around with an ironic gesture.

"We are not talking about curricular merits; we are speaking of serious criminal background!"

"By association only." says Regulus quietly. "I never was the one doing anything, I was _far_ too young."

"That doesn't justify..."

"Underage." Regulus interrupts. "Makes it all a relatively minor offense."

"Then why have you been faking dead this long?" says Taylor, despite being visibly uncomfortable.

"It is not the Ministry I am afraid of." Regulus answers blithely.

"Still how do you know that a man fickle enough that changed sides once isn't going to sell you out in the future? This is mad!"

"Because they'll kill me if they ever see me again." Regulus answers tartly. "Besides I can tell you I always believe in what I do; my opinions may have changed but not the fact that I'm right." he says ironically.

The tense moment goes on for some more before Sirius finally speaks, breaking the ominous tension in the room:

"I trust him." he says in dead earnest.

"So do I." Kinglsey after a few seconds.

"Aye, me too." says Tonks promptly. "And so does Moody, just so you know."

A quick round of confirmations follows, and Regulus looks triumphantly at the small woman in green.

"I still don't see why you would have wanted to change sides." she insists, but her tone has calmed somewhat, and she isn't challenging them anymore.

"I discovered something I shouldn't have, saw some more than I should..." he looks at her. "Which you have no business knowing. Dumbledore knows, though."

"I never knew... was what you saw that horrible?" asks Tonks to his younger cousin.

"It was." he says, and he exasperatedly pushes back his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. "God, how I hate personal confessions, they are terrible for the reputation."

Sirius looks at him with a blank expression, and Regulus thinks about hitting him. Instead he downs whatever wine was left on his cup.

"I did have a choice, okay, if that is what you wanted to know." he says a little aggressively, perhaps with more force than necessary. "Nonetheless, it was a grim one. Stay, continue doing something in which I no longer believed in, and possibly get killed once it became obvious that I knew too much..."

"Or run to offer your services to Dumbledore, desert Voldemort, and possibly get killed once they realized." says Williamson, catching the gist of it quickly.

"There is no possibility about it. I am alive because they don't know." he says grimly, and turns to Molly Weasley tensely. "The pie is superb Mrs Weasley."

"Why, thank you." she says a little surprised, but sympathetic with the need to break the mounting tension.

"Ah... I think I understand." Davies says finally, and she smiles, of all the unexpected things she could've done. "You do what you feel in your heart to be right, because you're at a point in you haven't' got anything to lose. You'll be stuck anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

"More or less." he answers. "It was all a matter of bad judgement. People sometimes forget most good judgement comes from experience; and most experience comes from bad judgement."

He shuts up then, uncomfortable again after a speech much longer than what he is used to.

"Do forgive me, but I had to check." she says. "I do never take what I'm told at face value."

"Very intelligent of you." Regulus admits airily.

"Worthy of Mad-Eye, all this..." Sirius says, raising one eyebrow, the most he's done in all this time, in which he hasn't been even close to losing his calm or showing ruffled feathers; which Regulus considers is absolutely unfair.

"I was the last auror he trained." she says proudly. "And of course you've been the bane of the Department for almost two weeks."

"If you can't convince them, confuse them." says Lupin. "That's the game we've all been playing... we don't let Order members get caught and sent to Azkaban."

"Of course." she says. "I am an auror, which means I believe in the law and justice. Nonetheless I'm the kind of auror that believes in justice more than the law. The secret is safe with me."

"I'd hate to be the cause of any bad conscience." Regulus answers sarcastically to the flamboyant nature of the declaration.

"A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory." says Sirius in his usual annoying fashion. "Don't you agree?"

"Whatever."

"Do you know..." asks Nymphadora. "that you've been the sole focus of one man's obsession for twenty years?" Sirius' raised eyebrow should be enough to prompt her for an explanation, but his gesturing between them asking to clarify which one does it, and she smiles the widest he's seen all day from her. "MacBride's been obsessed since you disappeared in 79'. He's built up all kinds of freak theories. Keeps snatching your file from the cold cases room."

"Just what I needed." Regulus sulks.

A stream of office anecdotes takes up the rest of the meal, along with the usual mundane complaints and problems of everyday life of a Ministry employee.

"I swear I don't know what I'd have to do so the good woman would stop thinking I'm some kind of undeserving ragtag." Williams complains. "I'm an auror. I have a good salary, good prospects, I'll be senior next year... we are to be married in a month!"

"And she still believes your're some kind of layabout that isn't fit to wipe her ass." Davies says amused at his colleague.

"Yes." he says. "Isn't that obvious."

"Then it is lucky that you're marring her and not her mother." Arthur says, earning a warning slap in his arm from his wife.

"Behind every successful man stands a surprised mother-in-law." Sirius tells him with a crooked smile. "I think the problem is the age gap. They forget their husbands were nobodies too when they got married... instead of sixty-something old farts that seat in front of the fireplace and have held the same job for at least three decades."

"And how are you supposed to know?" asks Bill.

"As if observing other people's misfortunes weren't enough."

"Well, anyways, it kind of isn't always true." Regulus tells him. "I kind of know of a couple that heartily approve of their future son-in-law. Of course that those were provably the most horrible matches that I could have ever come across..."

"Do you have anyone in mind, specifically?"

"Ah... you can imagine."

"It is funny, but there's a war going on out there, and we are here being so very normal." says Bill.

"Well," says George. "there's no better moment to life your life as if it's the last day…"

"…than when you know that it's going to be your last day." says Fred, and everyone but Molly chuckles at the joke.

"No need to be pessimistic," says Tonks in between chuckles. "it may be our last day, but there's always hope…" then did a kind of funny face. "even of getting a nice guy before all these ends with a bang."

A few pitiful stares bring her into a bit more defensive stance.

"What. I haven't got a decent man in ages. Less so since this Order business started." she says, and Rhyannon elbows her conspiratorially.

"Hey now... poor you." she smiles. "Someone forgot to write that down in the job description."

"Yeah, for the bad times, and the good ones that'll come after them!" she says and raises her glass in a salute. Everybody else does too, after her.

But when everyone's gone, and the lights are out, it is much more difficult to hold on to the cheerfulness and light-heartedness that spark when company is abundant. And sleep is hard to come by, while ghosts not of the substantial kind, roam in the darkness of the late evening. And silence swallows it all.


	28. Chapter 27: Time And Tide Wait For No

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

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**Chapter Twenty-Seven – Time And Tide Wait For No-One**

Sirius stands in the middle of his room, in front of a small handbag, magically expanded inside to have enough space to carry a myriad of things they'll need in the not-so-distant future and no sane person would normally consider as luggage. Right now he is particularly concerned about checking that he isn't leaving anything behind. Plus the odd assortment of potions, remedies and papers, he has already put a pair of new non-descript robes, a pair of cloaks and what usable wand he's been able to get his hands onto. One never knows when you may need one, and you never can take too many precautions.

On his bed, right beside his bag are laid out four brand-new robes and some more, which he'd just bought at Gladrags Wizardwear, enjoying his newly acquired freedom. Nothing too fancy, they strive for comfort and anonymity over anything else. They are plain wizard's clothes, dark as it was what he felt most comfortable wearing, no embroidery, no crests no patterns, non nothing. Standard everyday clothing, everyday shirts all easily transfigurable.

He'd felt justified in tearing away his father's old and regal set of grey robes with golden embroidery on the cuffs, thrown them in the fireplace and watched them burn as soon as he'd gotten back from the store. Having his own clothing to wear had been like getting another chunk of his own soul back.

He is abruptly snapped out of his musings by Regulus' voice, who's apparently been trying to establish communication with him while he's been with his mind somewhere else. He turns around, only to find him leaning carelessly on the door frame looking at him expectantly.

"You haven't listened to a single word I've said, have you?" asks. Sirius simply looks at him questioningly.

"No." he says. Regulus rolls his eyes in annoyance.

"I've asked you if I should be packing, and what should I pack if that's the case." he says. "I'm assuming we're not coming back, are we? I don't even know where we're going."

Sirius looks at him with scepticism.

"Just grab a couple of cloaks, a couple of robes, socks, that's _really_ important. Let's see... underwear, even more important… and a tooth brush, for I'm not sharing mine." he says. "And that's all you have to do because I've done everything else, lucky you."

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes, but I'm still not packing your bag."

Then he looks Regulus over. His robes scream Black, and are effortlessly indiscreet. He's already given thought to it, and clearly Regulus walking around with such outrageously démodé robes isn't a good idea.

"Take these." he says pointing to the contents inside a sliver cauldron he's got sitting on the desk. Regulus looks into it with a fair amount of caution, and tugs at them gingerly, like they might eat him. "I just thought you may like a change in wardrobe." he says nonchalantly. "But if you prefer to go out there like that, it's up to you."

Regulus rolls his eyes again, and unfolds them looking actually relieved at what he finds.

"I think I'll take the new ones." he says. "You can't truly blame me for mistrusting your taste in clothing."

Sirius looks at him, and feels amusement bubble up inside of him, which he just dissimulates with a scowl. Really, it's pretty hilarious that Regulus doubts him like this when he's the one who came back wearing that horrible ratty muggle sweater, you wouldn't have caught Sirius dead wearing it. Before Azkaban, of course.

"If you do still have those muggle clothes, take them." he tells him. "You never know."

"Anything else?" is the sarcastic reply.

"Well... perhaps you can take the china, the tableware might be a good idea too…"

"Get bent."

Sirius' uproarious laughter follows Regulus as he practically runs away from the need to punch something this early in the morning.

::::::::::::::

Sirius looks around Dumbledore's office with a fair amount of curiosity. The layout of the room has not changed very much in the sixteen years since he last saw it. It is essentially the same, with the clutter of odd trinkets and portraits covering every wall. Fawkes, today exceptionally chirpy stands o his golden perch by the window and peers at him with his intelligent eyes.

It is late in the evening. The curfew has already been called over Hogwarts.

The headmaster enters the office exactly at the appointed hour, not one minute earlier nor one minute late. He smiles gently at the not so young man as he rustles through the papers on his desk and gestures to him to take a seat.

"Sirius" he says. "Sit down, my boy."

"Good morning professor." he greets back, but takes his time sitting down, just because he can. Dumbledore observes him with a fair amount of amusement which only manages to disgruntle him a bit more than is justified.

"You already know how this works... I'm not going to pretend you need lectures." Dumbledore says kindly. Sirius' impatience must have shown then because the Headmaster has thankfully decided to spare him the sermon. "But there is a question you know I have to ask. Is what happened to Miss Meadowes going to be a problem?"

Sirius looks contemplatively at his hands. His middle fingers are unnaturally long. Witch pointers, they are called. And they are so tellingly magic.

"It wasn't any worse than any other death." he says serenely. "It certainly wasn't worse that what happened to James and Lily."

"Ah. You'll have to forgive your old Headmaster." Dumbledore says while opening and closing his drawers so many times that Sirius begins to doubt he is really looking for anything. "I should know better than to assume, or listen to idle gossip by now. Now, where on earth has it gone?"

"It was never going to work, she was older for once, and far too smart." he says flatly. "Have you tried that cabinet over there?"

"Oh, yes. There it is... Now there really isn't anything else but these." he waves the parchment he's gotten a hold of. "This is a list of the people you can get in contact with in the French, and Dutch Ministries and the Swiss as well. It is all I can do to effectively help you there. They know you are on your way. You'll only have to be your usual persona; of course everything has to pass in an unofficial manner. My old friend in the German ministry just died a year ago, I'm afraid there is no helping you in that regard; I know none of the younger folk there."

Sirius takes the list between his fingers and takes a look at the names that jump up from the page.

"Burn it before you leave England." Dumbledore says. "All this is mostly about stopping him from recruiting wizards over in the east, and specially the continental werewolves. If you feel that your life is in danger, never hesitate to fight back. Of course I've never had to tell you that before. We really can't afford any losses. And that includes you."

Sirius aims to look innocent and sincere when he nods, but he knows that with the passing of his youthful looks, and at his thirty-seven years of age, it is quite a difficult feat.

"You take your brother with you, but it is very important that word doesn't get to Voldemort about him. You know better than most what a catastrophe it could be. And, he can be very useful in the muggle world; he's lived there for quite some time." Dumbledore reminded him sagely.

Sirius acknowledges the truth with a grunt and proceeds to pick at a stray thread coming loose on his armchair.

"Have Regulus contact me by patronus; there is no point in reporting in person very often." Dumbledore's eyes are kind, and Sirius hates that he can't be angry at the old man for knowing about this weakness of his. "Let's see... I'm sure there was something..."

"Constant vigilance?"

Dumbledore's laughter is heartfelt, and Sirius feels a bit mischievous about it.

"Of course." the Headmaster straightens his demeanour. "You'll depart after sending Harry to the Durselys. You can't tell him where are you going or why are you going."

"I know."

"I'll keep him informed nonetheless." he says. "Let's not commit the same mistake twice."

Sirius snorts, but thinks that it is likely that Harry will get himself into trouble whether or not he knows what is going on. Information is a tricky gift sometimes.

"Now go, be a ghost." Dumbledore smiles at him.

Sirius picks up the letter and stands up dusting his robes. He turns to leave.

"There is one last thing." Dumbledore says suddenly grave. He speaks quietly. "Are you aware of the information your brother risked his life to get away with?"

Sirius slowly turns his head around and just looks at his old professor. Dumbledore sighs.

"But of course you do. Keep your eye open, Sirius."

"Granted, Headmaster."

The soft click of the door behind him and the motion of the stone stairs below his feet don't quite register as internally he debates whether or not to be irritated at the sudden interest in his thoughts on Dorcas, that his patronus or lack or thereof should suddenly be an issue and to top it off, that Regulus seems to be the apparent solution to all his problems.

::::::::::::::

Tuesday morning rolls by unfairly slow. Grimmauld Place, empty the previous week bubbles up with activity and everything seems to revolve around the arrival of the Hogwart's express at King's Cross.

By mid-morning Arthur and Molly have already had two rows about accepting Ministry issued protection on the Burrow and Mad-Eye's contribution hasn't helped to smooth things over.

"I'm never getting married; there is no upside to it." Sirius drawls at the umpteenth screech from upstairs while idly searching the kitchen for the hidden stash of cookies, he knows is hidden somewhere.

"That's not true. Statistically, married men live longer." Lupin points out unhelpfully, while he sits arms crossed looking at the progress of Sirius' perusal. Sirius could be a party-popper and say war brings about the opposite. But as Remus is making a valiant effort not to look upset about his mission with the ferals, he instead opts for a chauvinistic remark to lift the mood a little.

"They don't actually live longer, just seems longer."

"You're so cynical."

"You've noticed?" he grins wickedly. "I've been practicing for _years_."

"What I really think is the karmic retribution I'll suffer if I keep feeding your ego will be astronomical." Remus shoots back, but only gets a wider smile.

"A positive attitude may not solve all of your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." Sirius quips.

"Stop it, alright. The witticisms really become tiring after a while."

"You don't seem to mind them when you're the one uttering them."

The loud clanking of Moody's peg leg on the basement stairs gives them the heads up they need to look grave and serious upon his arrival. There is a younger, green recruit auror trailing behind him like a stray puppy.

"Black!" Moody barks as soon as he turns the corner and comes into view. Sirius makes a point of taking his time turning around and glares. Really, he respects Moody a lot, but right now he is very aware why they say sarcasm helps keep you from telling people what you really think of them.

"Truly Mad-Eye your visits are the most delightful thing yet to happen under this roof." he sneers back at the old auror, who is perhaps, one of the very few people truly immune to it. But in truth, his old mentor is just plain irritating and as pleasant as a surly dragon with a toothache.

"No yapping at me." he says, and while his back is on him now, Sirius knows his electric blue eye has whirled around to peer though his skull at him again. "I need you to do everyone a favour, and show this dimwit a couple of things."

Sirius sees Taylor cower and look at them blithely. He'd looked happier if Moody'd announced he'd have to face an angry hippogriff without a wand.

"Great in the field, normally. But I swear to God, I think they're getting bureaucratically stupider every year." the old auror grouses. "And then go the paper-pushers up in Administration and pass a memo on these rookies that gushes over how is proper arrest conduct and good behaviour under fire."

Sirius snorts, and Lupin feels a bit sorry for the flinch of the young man at disdainfully being called rookie.

"How do you put up with him?" he asks aggravated to the room.

"It's an art." Lupin says flippantly.

"You do realize I'm old, not deaf?" Mad eye says while turning around by the other end of the table and taking a swing from his hipflask.

"Surely you _know_ that blast in that raid in Southampton did something regrettable to your hearing, don't you Mad-Eye." Sirius countered with alacrity.

"I could not tell you why I'm here." Moody says.

"Oh spit it. What do you want me to do?" he says. "Just have in mind I'm leaving before the week is over."

"I just want you to show him what the old order can do." Moody jabs a finger in the young man's direction.

::::::::::::::

The huge tapestry of the Black family in the drawing room beckons them into the room. Sirius stands beside the fireplace looking like he's about to fall asleep on his feet from boredom; derisively looks the younger man over, but snaps his attention back to Moody when he impatiently waves him to get on with it. This would be far more interesting if the lad wasn't already half terrified of him.

In the pureblood tradition behind duelling, most youngsters of a pureblood family, male or female were trained to higher standards than self-defense. Skill with a wand was adamant for any wizard or witch, and children were taught to duel as soon they started being homeschooled. Other children who weren't purebloods didn't take part in this practice. The duelling tradition having gone into disuse, and rarely learnt it beyond a professional approach or childish fights that nearly always ended in tears or some growth sprouting someplace uncomfortable.

When folks would begin Auror Academy they knew their spells, they just weren't as good at getting them out in a hurry. To solve that problem they reduced the spectrum of hexes and curses they used in the course of a duel, to a few highly effective spells they could fire without thinking much. Of course, any proficient dueller would notice that, in fact they always did, and that was a problem when Death Eaters realized you weren't going nastier than a stunning spell. Moody, of course, disliked all this even more than he disliked the bunch of idiot retired aurors that taught them to limit themselves instead of grilling new aurors properly.

"This isn't really stealthy of you Mad-Eye." Sirius comments. "Setting me up to beat up one of your men, so you can check _I _haven't lost my touch. It isn't even sneaky."

"Well, don't be gentle." he growls. "You'd better still be as quick as that mouth of yours. Ore else! This one, ain't no pureblood, hasn't fought with one properly either, has all these idealised ideas of auror work too."

Sirius unfolds his body from the contours of the fireplace.

"I tought you'd want to check out for yourself."

Moody makes a good impression for growling at him in annoyance, and his magical eye doesn't quite leave him. Taylor contemplates half-horrified the familiarity with which Sirius treats his old mentor. Finally Moody grunts and shakes his head.

"Not as quick as I used to. I just need to see that down in the Ministry there was no lucky night on your part."

"There is always fortune in play Mad-Eye." he turns to the younger man looking at them nervously from the other end of the room. "We can always go downstairs there is a room for that."

The armoury doesn't make Moody blink, but barely anything does anymore.

"Bring it on." Sirius says with a wide, dangerous smirk, at the same time he slips into a void pose.

There is no tension, and no pose at all, just waiting before his muscles will lock and spring into action when he'll be fired against, not one moment sooner or later. It is complicated, and it takes years of drilling, but Sirius likes complicated, and it tends to throw people off.

"Don't make this personal." Moody warns him.

Taylor knows, just by looking at the older man that this is something he'll have to sweat; and Black, deceptively unprepared on the other end of the room is going to rely on his considerable skills to kick his rear end. The apparent disinterest and lack of preparation make him more wary that the meaner more intense fighting poses. At least his instinct does not deceive him with appearances, there is that.

He sighs jaggedly and steps into what he calls his pose, which is not nearly intense enough to be mean, and not nonchalant enough not to make obvious he is nervous; whereas Black stands with his feet spread apart, balanced by ease and practice. Auror or no, anyone would see who is more practised at duelling just by looking at them. Taylor uncomfortably switches his grip on his wand and waits. Unfortunately soon enough it is obvious that Black is not challenging, and will not strike first.

"What are you waiting for boy?" Mad-Eye shouts. "Contrary to popular belief there are suspects that will not threaten to attack first, not all will give you an overture! And you've got to catch them anyway!"

He can almost hear the prompt for constant vigilance. As soon as he starts raising his hands a spell is rushing towards him with more force and speed that he expected and he puts up a shield around himself, one of blue light. Sirius's first curse rebounds off of it and flies straight at Black who waves it away like it is a mere feather. Sirius Black hasn't moved from the same spot.

Suddenly he feels very deficient because he has never confronted a good dueller in his short career, besides his teachers, and the scallywags they've been arresting in these later years are kind of a joke.

Black lowers his arms and spreads them wide, taunting him. _Come on, I'm wide open_. He is not stupid enough to fall for that, and he sees Sirius's hand twitch around his wand, and he knows he is ready to fire back as soon as he drops his guard. _Enough playing it safe_. _Or this'll never be over._

When Sirius pounces, it is almost too fast to recount accurately. It is a sad truth than one shall not win a duelling bout by shielding against a skilled opponent. But he would've sworn he'd surely kill him and hack him into bits and pieces, that he couldn't possibly survive that whirlwind motion. And the sheer focus, and gleeful joy in the duelling that Black emanes is nerve-wracking. That each spell is not truly aimed at him, that it was aimed for just over the left shoulder, or underneath a crook of the right knee; escapes him for a time as he struggled to counter a foe that overwhelmed him; the point of the duel, to show control and perfection more than the true harm that he could do. After a while though he catches on that he is being played.

Maybe it's the realization that he can see, and his subsequent newfound confidence in the fight, but when he finds his feet under him, it happens.

Sirius is a hunter, he duels decisively, with stealth and with knowing. He is the hunter and he must know the patterns his prey follows. He predicts the moves of those he fights before they themselves know, and he is fast and lethal and without pity or mercy or cruelty. And when he truly attacks he is devastating. Things happen to him too quickly, but the wind is knocked out of him by and invisible giant hand shoving at his chest, fire catches at his leg. He heaves, and there are little spots on his vision as he lays knocked over on the floor.

In the entire time, Sirius hasn't used a stunning spell once, and he's hard pressed to recognize most of the ones he _has _used. He lets him collect himself, and Taylor's happy to see he hasn't sustained any lasting harm.

"These new aurors, they think they know everything." Moody says from his spot by the door.

"Now don't be too hard." he says. "It is not entirely his fault. Everyone is entitled to be stupid, now and then."

"Some abuse the privilege."

"Don't feel too hurt." Sirius throws at his erstwhile opponent. "You'll get better. If you survive all of this, granted... and Mad-Eye isn't prone to positive feedback."

"What's the use for that?" grunts Mad-Eye. "You've been getting back to speed."

"Had lots of time on my hands. Regulus had to get back into the game."

"He'd better truly be, otherwise you'll be alone out there again." Moody admonishes. "No matter what Dumbledore says, if emergency messages reach you, _answer_. I'll warn you if there is something wrong with Harry."

::::::::::::::

The station of King's Cross is as packed as always, the unseen menace of Voldemort hangs upon the air. Sirius glances from behind his newspaper, strategically positioned to hide his face while he keeps an eye on the passersby from the corner of his eye. The relatives inside the platform 9 ¾ throw curious glances at them, but one has own up that they really are an odd group.

There is Mad-Eye Moody, looking rather sinister with a ridiculous forest green bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye. He is, in fact, as terrifying as he would be without it, but it definitely adds a sleazy dodgy note to the usual thundercloud Moody conjures around him. His body is wrapped in a voluminous travelling cloak, and his gnarled hands clutch a long staff that he taps impatiently over the slow dragging of the minutes.

Tonks, recently released from St. Mungo, stands just behind him close enough to Sirius to read the newspaper now and then over his arm. Her bright bubble-gum-pink hair gleams in the sunlight filtering through the dirty glass of the station ceiling. This time, in an effort to mingle with the muggles she wears heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend _The Weird Sisters_ in neon green letters_. _

Next to Tonks is Lupin, his face pale, and his hair greying like usual. He's wearing a long and threadbare overcoat covering a shabby jumper and trousers despite the heat of early summer and a station full of trains. Of course Sirius himself is not much better. While his eyes scan the crowd again, revealing his impatience at the delay of the train, he taps his fingers against the grey paper of the Prophet. He's dressed as neutral as possible, a white shirt and a dark cloak, trying too to look as muggle as possible while trying at the same time to look dignified and someone befitting his age. He is probably, the one that resembles a muggle the most; if not for the fact that the long black coat is most definitely not suited for summer weather.

At the front of the group Mr and Mrs Weasley, dress in their Muggle best, and Fred and George, both wearing brand-new jackets in some lurid green, scaly material; wait with smiles on their faces as the Hogwarts Express pulls in. After practically an hour waiting for the train, mostly Molly's fault for insisting they arrive absurdly early, Sirius uncrosses his long legs and stands up.

Students start to get out the train in waves. It makes Sirius a bit nostalgic to see all the youthful effervescence, careless and unawares of the catastrophe about to happen, that it is already happening. Mrs Weasley stands on her toes, trying to see them coming. But it is Tonks the one to spot them first amongst the crowd.

"There!" she says pointing to the other end of the platform.

"Ron, Ginny!" calls Mrs Weasley, hurrying forwards with an energy enviable to so small a woman; hugging them all tightly. "Oh, and Harry dear, how are you?"

"Fine." lies Harry, as she pulls him into a tight embrace. In truth, he looks rather down, and when he catches Sirius' eyes he lowers his eyes repentantly.

Which, of course worries Sirius, and at the same time amuses him because the boy truly thought he would be angry at him, for whatever nonsensical reason he came up this time. In the rear the bicker of the Weasley siblings rises in volume.

"Sirius." says Harry throwing his arms around him. "I'm so sorry. You are ok?"

"Of course I'm ok." He says almost offended. "Takes more than bad fall to get rid of me."

"I thought she'd killed you."

"She wishes." Sirius says, and expertly steers Harry apart from the cluster of Weasleys so Harry can vent more or less in peace. "I'm sure Dumbledore already told you. But," he says warning with his finger as much as his voice. "You must promise me that you'll _never_ do this again; and especially that you'll never try to fight Bellatrix in the future."

"But I thought she'd kill…"

"Precisely." he says. "She is that good, and no matter how good you are, you are not ready yet. And if you're lucky all will be over before you are."

"You don't belive that, do you?" Harry says looking nervously around. Sirius shakes his head.

"No. But you can forget that for now. I'm glad I could come to see you off." says as he messes up Harry's hair.

"Dumbledore told me I couldn't come with you." he says, dejected; but looks hopefully at Sirius anyway. "Told me why too."

When Sirius doesn't go off in an angry diatribe, but looks sadly back at him, Harry looks even more dejected and let down than he did before.

"I'm leaving today." he says instead.

"Why? Where?"

"I cannot tell you." says Sirius, and Harry frowns, looking mutinous. "I'm leaving for Europe, and it's on Order business."

Harry seems disappointed, but the morsel of information seems to calm him, and at least make him understand why Sirius is already saying goodbye.

"I won't be able to write, for the safety of both of us." he places a hand on his shoulder, "but if you need anything write to Molly" he says throwing a glance at the woman with auburn hair. "or to Dumbledore if it's really important, ok? About the mirrors..."

"What mirrors?" Harry says confused. "I mean, yes I understand, but I know nothing about no mirrors..."

"The one I gave you back in September?" Sirius prompts, a bit taken aback that Harry has apparently paid so little attention, and at the same time understanding the outrageous risks Harry has been undertaking just to talk to him.

There is a moment of confusion in Harry's face before he connects the dots, and blushes profusely in embarrassment.

"Erm... I kind of forgot about it, never opened it; which is I forgot I had it..." he stutters. "I'm sorry Sirius."

Sirius sighs; berating Harry doesn't even cross his mind, which honestly surprises him. Besides, Harry is practically a man now; he doesn't need a replacement father. Beyond that, Sirius sincerely feels that he is by no means a good role model for him, what with his laundry list of character defects. So berating Harry for not doing things quite his way isn't very conducting to mutual trust. Instead he pats Harry's shoulder.

"Doesn't matter." he placates. "Someone in the Order will be carrying my mirror at all times, in case you need to make a warning. Read the note, it explains how to use them."

Harry nods and Sirius steps back letting Remus approach Harry.

"Hello, Harry." says Lupin, as Mrs Weasley is fussing over Hermione. "You're doing better?"

"Hi." says Harry. "What are you all doing here?"

"Well…" says Lupin with a slight smile.

"…We thought we might have a little chat with your aunt and uncle before letting them take you home." says Sirius, both of them were grinning from ear to ear.

"I dunno if that's a good idea," says Harry at once.

"Oh, I think it is." growls Moody, who has limped a little closer.

"Besides, that is why we are all here," Lupin says, looking at Sirius instead of Harry. "so by the end you still have an aunt and an uncle."

"That'll be them, will it, Potter?" Moody points over Harry's shoulder with his thumb. His magical eye is evidently peering through the back of his head and his bowler hat. Harry leans an inch or so to the left to see where Mad-Eye is pointing and there, sure enough, are the three Dursleys, looking positively appalled to see Harry's reception committee.

"Ah, Harry." says Mr Weasley. "Well, shall we do it, then?"

"Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur." says Moody.

They take towards the Dursleys, who are apparently rooted to the floor. Sirius closes the committee, quite unwilling to get too close to Harry's awful relatives.

"Good afternoon," says Mr Weasley pleasantly to Dursley as he comes to a halt right in front of him. "You might remember me, my name's Arthur Weasley."

Sirius watches unimpressed as Vernon Dursely turns a deeper shade of puce and glares at Mr Weasley, even if he doesn't say anything yet. Petunia is one piece of work he could've done without meeting again, he thinks; she keeps shooting both frightened and embarrassed looks around, as though terrified somebody would see her in such company. The son, while incredibly fat, is also completely unremarkable, and seems to be trying to look small and insignificant, a feat at which he fails extravagantly.

Dursley keeps glancing at Sirius at the back of the group out of the corner of his eye, probably because of the sober and sombre way he dresses, and the fact that Harry is standing very close to him. Possibly he thinks that he has some kind of control over the group. Sirius, on the other hand, is feeling surprisingly laid back about it all, and is letting the talking to Mr Weasley.

"We thought we'd just have a few words with you about Harry." says Mr Weasley, still smiling pleasantly.

"Yeah." growls Moody. "About how he's treated when he's at your place."

Vernon Dursley's moustache seems to bristle with indignation. Over which point exactly it is more difficult to tell. "I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house…"

"I expect what you're not aware of would fill several books, Dursley." growls Moody.

"Anyway, that's not the point." interjects Tonks, whose pink hair offends Mrs. Dursley more than all them put together. "The point is, if we find out you've been horrible to Harry…"

"And make no mistake, we'll hear about it." adds Lupin pleasantly. Which of course only makes Sirius more amused.

"Yes," says Mr Weasley, "even if you won't let Harry use the fellytone…"

"If we get any hint that Potter's been mistreated in any way, you'll have us to answer to." says Moody.

Uncle Vernon swells ominously; his sense of outrage seemingly outweighing even his fear of wizards in general.

"Are you threatening me, sir?" he says, so loudly that passers-by actually turn to stare.

"Yes, I am." says Mad-Eye, rather pleased that Dursley has grasped this fact so quickly.

"And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?" barks the massive man.

"Well…" says Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. The girly jump backwards in horror and the painfully comical collision with a luggage trolley have Sirius having to rein the laughter in.

"Yes, I'd have to say you do, Dursley." he says instead, and he actually likes the visible discomfort he causes in the muggle. "I would watch my back if I were you... You never know who might be waiting at your doorstep."

Vernon shivers visibly, how much does he love frightening people like Dursley. He can feel Remus' fond exasperation a few feet away. Maybe he knows Sirius too well by now, Sirius is fine with straightforward intimidation tactics, although maybe not the finesse of political interaction; unless he is unusually prompted or in a bit of a sadistic mood.

"So, Potter… give us a shout if you need us. If we don't hear from you for three days in a row, we'll send someone along…" Petunia whimpers piteously at Mad-Eye's words.

"Bye, then, Potter." says Moody, grasping Harry's shoulder for a moment with one of his big gnarled hands.

"Take care, Harry." says Lupin quietly. "Keep in touch."

"Harry, we'll have you away from there as soon as we can." Mrs Weasley whispered, hugging him again. "You'll be coming over later."

After hugs and promises from his friends and the Dursley, Sirius has him for himself for a few seconds.

"Be careful Harry." says Sirius as he allows Harry to hug him. "Even if we can't speak, remember that I'll always be there for you."

"I'll have it in mind." Harry says, slightly less sad and depressed that he was when they arrived.

"You do that."

"I'll be able to spend part of the summer with Ron?" asks Harry. Sirius is about to answer but Vernon cuts him short.

"And may I know who are you to tell Harry what he may and what he may not do?!" he says almost outraged, and certainly on the warpath. Sirius looks at him like someone who looks down at an insignificant cockroach.

"Well, that was rude. I'd thought you'd remember me, even if it's been a long time." Sirius says he says politely nonetheless, as manners come naturally to the Blacks, and he knows how to exploit it. He often wonders whether they do apologise in advance for any inconvenience just before casting an Avada Kedavra. "We have met before, even if you obviously forgot."

This close to Vernon Dudley there is an almost painful height difference between them, and Sirius hovers menacingly over the obese man. His face, set in a disdainful mask is stony and unmoving. While Sirius may only see the years he bears, others often see something else entirely. Like Petunia Dursley, who's way too nervous by Sirius' invasion of their personal space to feel offended by his long hair. His aristocratic features have become even further refined with age, giving him a look of careful intensity, his grey eyes shine with both deep knowledge and a near-manic excitability that in rare moments melts their icy quality. In either case, Sirius is very aware that the effect is every bit as terrifying to the Dursleys as it is on any other wizard. And he pulls into his stare every bit of icy disdain he can summon.

"I'm Harry's godfather." he says curtly, and he enjoys as Dursley is momentarily frozen in shock, and Petunia's almost whimper. He turns to Harry, and blandly ignores them again. Remembering why they had all agreed that let him interact too much with the Dursleys was a bad idea. "Of course you will go, you heard Mr. Weasley. I'll see you at Christmas, if I can."

He tries to smile reassuringly, and Harry actually smiles back, while eyeing his uncles more or less discreetly and clearly enjoying it. He raises a hand in farewell to the others, clearly choosing to forgo saying all the things that come to mind. When he goes, he turns back and gives him a one-armed hug when Sirius hasn't moved from the spot yet.

"I won't do anything you wouldn't." he whispers in his godfather's ear, which makes Sirius grin. And before he can say anything, he's leaving, which leaves Sirius with a sour taste because, having come so far, and after all these years, he still cannot give Harry what he needs.


	29. Chapter 28: To Labour and to Wait

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: To Labour and to Wait**

He hadn't been surprised at all that morning to see his brother wasn't ready on time for their departure. That is precisely why he'd erred on the side of caution and deceived him into believing they were leaving far too early. Instead of staying there looking the dust gather in the air he'd walked down to the kitchen, where Remus had been sitting on a chair looking for all means and purposes, dejected.

"Weren't you supposed to leave today too?" he'd said.

"Yes," had muttered Remus uncharacteristically darkly. "I'll be leaving after you."

"I know you don't want to return with the pack, but you have to." had been his answer. "I know that that's not very comforting, but it's the only way to look at it."

"You are one to talk. It's not only that I don't want to go just because I don't like it." Remus had answered. "It's just that when I see them, they remind me how much of a monster I am."

"You are not a monster Remus." had said Sirius calmly, he felt like they were back to being twelve years old. "You're just a good person, to whom bad things have happened, that's all."

"I used to tell myself this, but I can't do it anymore." Sirius had just shaken his head, and patted the werewolf's shoulder in silent support. "You should be leaving."

Sometimes Sirius hated that he was so inopportune. Was it necessary that the last thing he'd told to his lifelong friend was "Oh, and Remus… live a little."?

The crumpled face that had regarded him back sure as hell hadn't been worth it, over keeping his own awkwardness around his own vulnerable emotions. His stride lengthens unconsciously, and his nerves stand on end while he regards their surroundings.

"Sirius!" finally a sharp voice pulls him out of his momentary reverie. "Where to? Or was this, not necessary at all? Hmm?" He sends a scathing glare at him, and just nods in eastward direction, but pointedly ignores Regulus gesturing at his own face.

"I can't risk you being recognized, this is so no-one will see your face." he'd said as if he was explaining simple arithmetic to a three year old. In fact, what Sirius had done that morning had been placing a mask in front of his face, so that now it's impossible to see his most distinguishing features though the distorting lens of the spell. To Regulus it had felt like been submerged in a bucket of cold water; and it itches.

Truth is Regulus looks disturbingly anonymous with the spell on. Very unremarkable to any idle passerby, which had been his intention all along.

He'd disaparatted the moment they've gotten out of Grimmauld Place. They'd had to make a side-along apparition, which had made him feel even more like a child that the presence of Sirius usually did. It hadn't mattered that Sirius' reasons were actually reasonable for once. The fact that _he_ didn't know were they were going. Or the fact that he wasn't unplottable. It wouldn't be very discreet if a foreign Ministry caught them bending several international laws just in the start of their mission. This way he just shared Sirius' 'unplottability' for the journey.

The warm sun of July baths the bushes and trees of the forest, gently caressing the birds that sing to the clouds. The greenery is very scenic, and the sound of water fills the air. They are the only figures moving in the middle of the vegetation. Regulus utters a loud _ouch_ and then takes a couple of steps as he removes some plant from his clothes and tries to get a piece of tree bark out of his hair.

He is looking sourly at his brother.

"Next time you apparatte try to improve your aim, you dropped me right in the middle of a bramble bush, and I assure you all these thorns aren't exactly pleasing." he grumbles, Sirius looks amused at him and chuckles as he keeps removing leaves from his cloak. _Of course_ Sirius had landed airily and was free of stray bits of vegetation.

"Stop complaining Reg, we don't have all day." Sirius says, "And well... this bush wasn't here sixteen years ago."

"Yes I got that, but where to?" Regulus asks doggedly, and with an insistence that most people desist on after a brief acquaintance with Sirius.

"To a safe house." answers Sirius, and then starts to walk through the sideway of the road, now visible after their short trek, rising clouds of dust with his boots.

"But… but it will be at least at half a day walking!" he says as he runs after his brother. "There is no trace of a village in at least... it's not visible!"

"No, half a day if you go for a stroll, it's less than three hours at a good pace." Sirius throws over his shoulder with a bit of glee.

"And _why_ didn't we apparate closer?" Sirius throws him a smirk.

"It's a village with many wizards." he says. "Do you want to loose an eye, a leg perhaps?"

They keep walking until the sun is high in the sky. All the way trying to avoid getting ran over by the trucks that drive down the muggle road in this side of the country at lightning speed. Regulus keeps glancing at the road signs to try and discern where exactly are they going.

The town is not so small once they arrive to it. And it might have a healthy wizarding population but it doesn't show, at least not as much as it does in mainly wizarding towns in England. People fill the small cafes and children play in the park by the main street, but if there is a special reason to think any anonymous passerby would be scrutinized he doesn't see it. Then a little voice that sounds like Alastor Moody in his mind drawls that you can never be careful enough.

Sirius walks down the street as if he's always lived there, with a purpose that shows in the resolute gait and nobody seems to notice that they really don't belong there. Regulus is suddenly glad that these kinds of cloaks pass well enough for muggle ones, even if wearing them in the middle of summer isn't as unremarkable as he'd like.

Truth is that the area is the one with the biggest wizarding population in the whole France, fairly buzzing in wizard activity, and the local muggles have probably seen far worse. It also makes it the ideal place to start gathering information about everything and anything concerning wizards this side of the border, and provably outside too.

When he was starting to get fed up with the feeling of being dragged around, they finally get to an old building that's definitely seen better times. It's four levels high and the front appears to be crumbling around the edges. It takes little time to get in and up the small staircase inside, up to the small landing of the fourth floor.

Inside the small apartment, Sirius heads to the windows and cracks them open. It allows the sunlight to enter and brings light to the small battered place. The air seems to become less dusty and a shallow breeze moves the curtains lazily. Outside the old balcony doors, and down in the street he can hear people talking nonsense. Regulus closes the heavy door behind him with a click.

"I didn't expect it to be clean." Of course Regulus takes this comparatively, as it was intended. "Even if I knew it'd still be in place."

"This didn't belong to Uncle Alpahard." he says.

"No. The muggle who owns the place signed a lease. Which I've never had time to even remember to stop paying. And of course a couple of spells have kept him from asking too many questions all this years, or being really interested in _this_."

Regulus quirks up a smile at the encompassing gesture of Sirius' hands.

"That is _illegal_." he points out.

"Yes of course, but no harm no foul." Sirius says tersely. "It isn't as if I robbed him. Just a couple of disillusioning spells and a modified memory charm. And of course the place has got a few magical shields..."

"Just a few?"

"...which you have just volunteered to check." Sirius finishes.

Regulus frowns, but when he sees Sirius take out parchment quill and ink from his coat pockets and pull backwards the solitary chair by the only table in the piece he rethinks it. Sirius watches him as he goes to crouch by the door and starts his tedious job. He continues to watch until he is satisfied that Regulus seems to have no trouble working over Dorcas' magic. Then he gives his attention back to the matter at hands.

He's started to sketch a rough plan in his head. First of all he needs to get a hand on Dumbledore's contacts. In the end, bureaucrats always need three times longer to render any useful information than any other people in possession of it. Not that paper-pushers are the only kind of people in possession of privileged information that Dumbledore knows; but it is the only kind Sirius needs to have a good word put in for him. His people are different, they always have an ear out for trouble and will trade it more or less easily, all depends on which is their weak spot. Everybody has a price.

_Maybe_, he thinks _it is lucky I haven't discovered which is mine yet._

But Dumbledore's people are important too. He needs to know how the news have taken this whole affair this side of the Channel. He also needs to know how it might progress, how willing and forthcoming help will be, for them or for the Death Eaters. He needs to know how carefully he'll have to thread from now on.

So he lowers his head to the parchment and begins to string together the right words. When he raises his head again, it is to find that the light has started to die outside. And that he's alone in the apartment. He swears under his breath and promises to rip Regulus a new one once he shows his face. Supposing nothing's happened that he has to go looking for him _already_.

When Regulus does come back from his little run for food, he finds the door entirely to willing to swing itself open, and a wand shoved into his face. Which just proceeds to spoil his mood further. Because there was no food and he hasn't eaten all day, and what was Sirius thinking? Why's he fooling himself, of course Sirius forgot about food... and soon enough there'll be no sleep either. And he's got a wand shoved in his face, which is a little too much.

"I was going for _food_." he says with emphasis. "Because unless you're planning on eating _rodents_, there's nothing edible here."

"Could've waited until tomorrow." Sirius grumbles.

"No it couldn't." he answers, brushing past him. "And seeing as you clearly forgot I made the grocery run."

It really irritates Regulus to no end how Sirius will always find a way to emphasize how he really doesn't think like a normal, rational human being. Like doing things with the most screwed up logic helps him with his point somehow. How he sometimes is so careless and heedless of his most basic needs. And Regulus is not willing to let him pick a fight over food.

"If you don't like it don't eat." he grunts.

He sets a carton box picked up in a barbeque a few blocks away that didn't cook a lot of meat and wasn't too clean, but at least they'd been willing to throw it all in a box. Sirius looks at what vaguely looks like pasta and picks up a plastic fork, and pokes it doubtfully. As he does so his nose wrinkles in a grimace, And Regulus actually sniggers because of it. The mild glare that's shot his way is something between an apology and a reproach.

"You're in a bad place to be picky." he says.

"This is a particularly bad version of spaghetti _a la cheese_." Sirius grumbles. "Did it have to be pasta? It's not like we're in Italy."

"Couldn't convince them to give me anything else." he returns. "Quit whining. You're the one who didn't want to eat in the first place."

Silence stretches comfortably for a spell of several minutes as forks clank and the meagre meal disappears. Regulus is the first to speak. "So what do we do?"

"Contact whoever's still around from last time." Sirius says. "When you've been in that deep, rumours of noise reach you easily. You can start working on the ones that come along this time. Perhaps new informants."

"And Meadowes' contacts?" he asks finally.

"What about them?" Sirius says. "I took care of contacting them after she died."

The succinct answer should discourage him. After all Sirius makes it pretty simple to gauge where you're stepping into an unwelcome topic. Still he can try; Sirius might let him force him into yelling him about what he wants to know. But he can't always work out how a conversation with Sirius will go, no matter how carefully he tries to plan it. Sirius is predictable in that he defies prediction; it is impossible to guess how he will react to anything or if he will react at all.

"Right, and you never fixed her spellwork?" when his sceptical question is met with silence he continues pushing. "I'm not stupid, no matter what you think. Those spells weren't all of your making. So don't go telling me not to..."

"Ask?" Sirius rebukes him. "Have you really asked something?"

"Right, so why did you never fix the damn wards?" he says. "They were waning."

"Wasn't necessary, weren't planning on putting them to use." he answers. "I used some of Uncle Alphard's estate then. It was more discreet."

"And now it isn't?" Regulus inquires.

"That's what they're half expecting me to do." he says.

"Does it matter? They're blood-warded, for the love of Circe!"

"In a few weeks it won't." Sirius says.

"Right." Regulus snaps.

"Listen carefully, because I'll repeat this only once." Sirius says suddenly setting his plate down with a clink. "Just because everyone talks in hushed voices every time Dorcas comes up in conversation around me..."

"Oh, it's Dorcas now, is it." Regulus sneers, and he knows it is childish but he doesn't care. God he's pathetic he doesn't like sharing attention with a _dead_ woman.

"...on some misguided notion that I'll break down crying if they do. She was my partner, she died, and that's all there is to the damn story. So stop damn acting stupid and getting strange ideas. It is not true that I didn't change security wards just because feelings of great despair. Or do I look foolishly sentimental to you?"

It is a double edged question if there ever was one, but he knows pretty quickly that it was a foolish notion alright.

"There was no _Sirius and Dorcas_, no matter how nosey folks insist on painting that grand image like we were going to get hitched and spout of a couple of kids eventually." Sirius emphasizes. "She was a good companion that got killed, and that's a damn shame because she was very good. But that's all."

"Well, you've never denied it." he protests.

"Does it look like they'd believe me?" Sirius retorts sullenly. "We just worked together."

"Just work, right." Regulus snorts.

"Just that." He says.

Truth is... the truth is actually too complicated to tell. Especially because everybody is too fond of looking for a soft spot in him, something to get to pair him up with someone, prove he can be normal; or something to explain why he's always been willingly alone.

They'd been together in a sort of on-off basis back then. She'd been older than him by six years. But they got assigned to work together in Europe for the Order. He was very handsome back then. He wasn't going to be foolishly modest and deny it. He liked her well enough, but he didn't love her. He wasn't _in love_ with her. He didn't have time to love anyone like that, not even her who made it so easy. There simply were other things to do, other places to be. But the stress of the assignment, the close quarters, the tension and the need for human connection... had been too much for any of them to stop and _think_. They'd been so far away from friendly faces.

Sirius has always had a hard time coming to love people, and harder still in completely trusting them. He'd only known her for too short a time. He'd kept company with her because she'd been right there, she'd been discreet, she'd been witty and smart and willing... and he'd felt a bit lonely with James off with Lily and not knowing if he should trust Remus. He'd used her. He'd seen it in her eyes sometimes, that she'd loved him. It'd been only a glimpse, but it had been there. He'd never understood what she saw in him, but never had the strength to stop giving her any false hope. He's never loved a woman like she wanted him to lover her. He could be dishonest and say that he'd tried, but dishonesty is not his way. He doesn't know how it feels to love a woman deeply; but he knows that it wasn't it. Then she'd died.

He'd known her for only two short years.

He'd been sorry for her family, and for her; but her death had been an attention call. They'd both known they were high priority targets and kept on anyways. But if someone as clever and whip-smart as her could get killed... so did them all. It was very difficult to feel invincible after that. And people just had this strange idea, that James had had... he snorts at his friend even today; so willing to see for everyone a happily-ever-after that Sirius could never have.

But he can help other people have it. That's what he tells himself. And as long as he's got something to do, something to focus on; his thoughts won't swirl in awkward directions; at least as long as Regulus stops being nosey.

::::::::::::::

Next morning Regulus wakes in his horrible bunk-like bed to find Sirius gone. With nothing better to do, he caves and does what he swore he'd never do again and tries to get their meagre living quarters into some semblance of neatness.

"Don't get too enthusiastic it's not like we're staying much longer." Sirius says from his spot leaning against the bedroom doorframe.

Regulus snaps his head up from his place crouching right beside one of the mattresses. When he does so, with a squeal and a run, an unidentified kind of rodent tries to get away from him. A bright jet of green light puts a swift end to the escape attempt. Sirius kicks the lifeless body of the little animal away from him.

"I hate rats." he says simply. "I went looking for an owlery to sent those three letters already and get this gig going."

"By _owl_?" Regulus asks.

"They're supposed to reach a Ministry worker." Sirius lectures him. "Wouldn't be very discreet otherwise, but it doesn't mean it hasn't got some nasty curses for prying morons."

Only then Regulus realises how late it has gotten.

Sirius is very active, working on documents he's provably gotten from Kingsley prior to their leave, or maybe Nymphadora, but he doubts that. He keeps an eye on every newspaper possible, both magical and muggle alike; and proceeds to bring Regulus to date in the keys of all their informants net over central Europe.

_Information centres, contacts, international organizations, escape routes. _

Regulus cannot avoid noticing it is very solid and well-spread, even if it might have deteriorated by disuse. It is cleverly organized and is above-all discreet, much more discreet that what he's used to. No-one's eve accused the Death Eaters of being subtle, after all. They aren't the ones in risk of getting killed.

Most of the time.

Nonetheless, no matter how informative Sirius' lessons appear to be, the wait is trying. The next days are in the end, comprised only of waiting. Waiting and waiting for news to reach them, for those letters to return with answers, and the few words Sirius has put in the right ears, to reach back to them.

Regulus feels useless. It has been an instinct from early childhood, whenever Sirius had been asked to do something important, to prove that he too knows how to. He's eager to prove himself worthy, humiliating as it may be, and his nervous enthusiasm is dampened by the long wait, by the tediousness of it all. The worse thing is that Sirius always knows.

Those are sleepless nights staring at a ceiling lying on a damp uncomfortable cot, pretending you can't hear the other's unsteady breathing; because you're not the only one that can't get a wink of sleep.

When finally the answers arrive it is anticlimactic.

"Several of my contacts died," says Sirius as he lights up a piece of parchment after reading them. The cup of coffee sitting by his elbow is empty. "It's a shame, but bound to happen. Dragon pox two years ago, has been doing some damage around."

"Survive a war, and die of dragon pox." Regulu snorts.

"There are worse ironies."

"And what will this take us? Two, three days?" asks Regulus. "A week at most?"

"A bit longer." Sirius says thoughtfully. "LaPierre is almost as paranoid as Mad-Eye."

"Almost?"

"Well, yeah." Sirius says. "He hasn't tried to slip me veritaserum yet."

"Does he know, you know his name then?" The look he gets, he guesses was supposed to make him spontaneously combust. "I guess he wouldn't directly tell you." he clarifies. "And I am most assuredly _not_ paranoid."

"No."

"Thank you."

"No, as in no he doesn't."

"Ah. Excuse the confusion, the fantastic speech was so dazzling it completely erased any capability of thought."

"Sometimes I doubt you have much of that." Regulus glares. No matter what, they always seem to end up glaring at each other.

"Everything's arranged." Sirius says pointing to the parchment. "While we do that, we'll stay here, it's safer."

He then looks at it, at the parchment, and takes it in hand, while with his wand he lights it, and watches it burn into a satisfying pile of ash.

"You know?" says Regulus. "I don't think we'll find Death Eaters in these god forsaken place, they never tend to fish for people away from glamour and power."

"That's why we'll start moving around as soon as we alert these people."

"Around _all_ Europe?" asks Regulus a little taken a back. "Isn't it a bit too big for two men?"

"Very smart, Sherlock." says Sirius mockingly. "That's why Charlie Weasley is supposed to lend a hand."

"My name's not Sherlock." says Regulus. "And you don't know even who that _muggle_ is."

"Cl-e-ver."

::::::::::::::

The Gargoyle's Claw is a small well known pub in town. Wizards and witches of the region come and go and so do travellers, and folks of all sorts, and news too. Jean-Paul wipes the bar with a rag and shoots a look at the quiescent door.

It's time for early lunch and the usual patrons are congregated around a corner booth over a game of cards of which he'd rather ignore the kind of bets that it's originated as long as it stays civil. He starts drying some glasses, just not to remain idle. He glances back at the only customer by the bar. He is a rather unremarkable man, with short stocky legs and long nervous hands with which he fidgets with his glass. He wears a jacket in the most unflattering maroon colour and is nondescript except for the fact that he wears round sunglasses inside and for the jaded scar around the left ear.

"You think he'll come?" he asks breaking the silence.

"He said so, didn't he?" the man returns with a croaky voice. His fingers itch as if to grab the cigarette pack, but he doesn't quite dare under the barman's eyes.

"After all this time?" his tone is sceptical. "Be careful, Cicero."

He gets a grunt for an answer, and it is as good as he's going to get out of him. For all the apparent grumbling, the old man looks apparently happy to be back into the game. Enforced retirement has done his friend a disservice, and he longs to return to more interesting activities than reading the paper every morning. He's made of the possession and handling of information a lifelong business; and fortunately for Jean-Paul and his business has been always scrupulous about whom to share it with.

It also means he's been bending his ear with rumours from England for months, and passing along the disquiet the WITCH people (Wizarding International and Tactical Coordinating Headquarters) have been feeling. Some say he fought in the '45 during the Grindelwald debacle; but he doesn't know for certain because his friend doesn't speak of it. What he does know is that there've been ugly rumours making the rounds and old acquaintances reappearing from thin air.

A tall man saunters through the doors and heads straight for the bar with a harassed look. He's thin and dressed in nondescript black and grey mismatched muggle and wizard clothing, with fair short hair and thin wire glasses perched crookedly on a nose that's been broken several times.

He doesn't recognize him, not even when he drops on a stool and he gestures for something to drink. But they both recognize the blue handkerchief on the neck. The glass full of clear pungent liquid clinks in front of the newcomer while he withstands calmly the inspection by the man a stool over.

"I was expecting to hear from you a year or so ago." the old man finally coughs out.

"How so?" the man asks as if he wasn't interested, but despite the attention received by the drink, de doesn't seem interested in drinking it either.

"Weird rumours spread across this parts..." he says in low voice his voice. "that You-know-who is back."

One clear grey eye looks askance at him for a moment, the scoffs. "Aren't we a bit old to be using euphemisms?" he asks. His compatriot snorts.

"If you don't play nice I can always go away with whatever I know." he challenges.

The foreigner bends his head in acquiescence.

"You probably would have." he says, "were it not that we've been having trouble from the Ministry goons. They were very busy sabotaging us."

"_Oui_. There have been people here... asking questions." he says. Jean Paul, apparently oblivious to the conversation, nods nonetheless. "Of course, we don't know nothing at all."

"Of course. It's all true. I wouldn't be here otherwise." he says. He pushes a sealed envelope over the wooden bar towards him. "I need to know how far you are willing to go this time."

"I've got nothing to win over this. I've got nothing to lose either." he simply says, and he taps the envelope with one finger. "Alastor?"

"Yeah." he says. "Amongst others. He sent that. You can hope that amongst all the paranoia there should be something useful." The man gazes steadily at him for a few moments. "You know the drill for information, names, dates, places…" he goes on. "I can't tell you yet who you've got to look out for because I don't know."

"I'm retired." Cicero finally admits.

For the first time their interviewer takes a sip of the liquor, and doesn't hide a grimace at the taste. Jean-Paul has the distinct impression that whomever "White" is, was, has been all this time; was already aware of the fact.

"You should contact the folks at WITCH Headquarters in Geneva, they'll know some more from the east." he advices. "You can alway tell them that..."

"LaPierre sent me?" the other interrupts. "Planned to."

"Someone's gonna hex your brains off one day." LaPierre growls, annoyed. "I there's so much you know why're you here? Gloating?"

"Nah." he answers. "I don't care what you can tell me from the east. What I need you to do is get in contact with your boys. And find where on the border a wizard might choose to cross on foot to avoid detection."

"There are several smuggling routes." he says. "It is common knowledge, and at least one's just three days from here."

"I know. But France is lax in her Apparating policy." he tells him. "They're using it to enter the continent. The eastern countries aren't that forgiving. They'll have to cross on foot or use muggle means. Guess what they'll do?"

"They could also travel with permits." he remarks.

"Which means a paper trail." he gets as an answer. "Leave that to me."

"You should contact the WITCH folk, we... they're international for a reason. They can't arrest anyone, but don't need a reason to open an investigation either."

"Maybe... but not all are willing to take sides." he fishes a few coins out of a jacket pocket and tosses them on the counter.

Jean-Paul tears his attention for his rag and his glass, and deposits it on the counter too with a clink, right beside the practically untouched one of strong liquor.

"There were two men." he says, finally. "One was too young. The other was older, dark haired, pale... that one's been around before."

_Damn_, is the first thing Sirius thinks; _Dolohov_.

::::::::::::::

After a week they've made several trips. Regulus accompanied Sirius on a visit to an old nag further south that apparently has got bat-ears on top of a rather unhealthy obsession for monitoring the minute on-goings of an area that is larger than the city of London. They've also been to Geneva and the WITCH Headquarters by the river.

By the time they've come back Regulus has almost gotten used to seeing Sirius with absurdly floppy hair and an absurd goatee.

Of course there was nothing to be told about Death Eater movements. But Sirius is rather adamant that dossiers on known smuggling routes be delivered to them. On their cramped living quarters piles of files have mounted and distributed themselves in piles maybe Sirius understands but he certainly doesn't. After days he's certain he's read more about smuggling, illegal distribution of forbidden substances and potion trafficking that he really thinks he'll ever need. Sirius makes him separate the well-known distributors, people with a violent history, people with potential contacts.

"It is easier to look for someone who doesn't hide, but flaunts the fact that he hasn't been brought to justice yet. That's what Dolohov will do." Sirius says. "They'll help them intimidate whomever for a price."

"You don't know it's Dolohov."

"It's Dolohov." he insists. "He gets a sick pleasure out of being the one to intimidate _them_."

When they've finally finished, and Sirius' map is full of tortuous blue lines and green points, Regulus couldn't be more glad to see the back of those dossiers.

"We don't have anything else to do in here." Sirius comments one evening as he fidgets with his wand, spouting yellow sparks.

"Where then?"

"It's not really _recommendable_ for us to stay for too long in a place."

"So, you think we should move _where_?" Regulus prompts impatiently.

"We've got a couple of things to do in Paris." comments Sirius as he keeps whirling his wand.

"Paris?"

"Yes."

"So what are we waiting for?"

Sirius shrugs a moment and taps a finger over Dolohov's Azkaban picture on the table.

"I'm going to catch him this time." he finally says.


	30. Chapter 29: The Rain Falls the Wind Blow

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Rain Falls, the Wind Blows**

It is a cool night, the breeze of July blows colder than usual and the trees move in stunted violent movements dancing awkwardly being shaken by the wind. It makes the branches creak dangerously and the tableware on a small terrace flies away. The sky announces a big summer storm, the weather change has been sudden. As the clouds whirl past there are no stars to be seen. But thunder can be heard overhead.

Even so, the city is not dormant. But muggles rarely take notice of a small alley at the rear of a well-know restaurant in the centre of the city, and if they do they forget quickly. I's a dark alley, they always are, it seems its sole purpose is to dump the leftovers and garbage of the kitchen in great smelly garbage containers.

The roaring wind conveniently covers the soft pop of apparition, when two figures emerge in a badly-lit corner. Sirius and his brother walk out the alley as if it is the most normal thing to walk out a street filled with all kinds of foul-smelling garbage. They keep their heads low in order to stop the wind from getting stray bits of hair in their eyes.

They do not look like themselves, Sirius has done a wonderful transfiguration job of their appearance. But even so, Regulus remains behind, and they walk the required distance separate. The river can be heard by sensitive ears with its gentle sound in the background, and the air is humid. The bridge they cross, separate a few yards, is all metal and wood and padlocks of all kinds and sizes are stuck on its railing like a bizarre shrine. Their walk brings them further away past the Louvre and a small way into Les Halles.

And where the vast walls of the old palace can still be seen from afar, in between graceful more modern houses a stone classical building emerges to greet them. It sits lying silently, and mocking the muggles that walk right in front of it without seeing it.

The old palace possesses high walls decorated with fine craved stone, and the crest of the Black Family sits engraved on top of the massive doors, right beside another one, this one consistent of a white griffin. The point of entrance though is not through the huge wooden doors with solid iron riveting, but through a smaller wizard-sized door carved into them. It opens smoothly as Sirius pushes them, leading into an inner courtyard, with a stone fountain in the middle that looks suspiciously like it might have been used as a watering hole in times past. On the far end of the yard there are stone stairs that lead to the first floor. The windows looking to the yard are broken, no longer glorious to look upon.

Sirius looks around the old rundown house with less mixed feelings than he did Grimmauld place. It wasn't often during their childhood that they've come to this place. Their mother had preferred a more airy and les stuffy house near Strasburg. Although twenty years ago its condition hadn't been so poor. The sound of the gate opening drives him aside from his musings, and he sees his brother entering as quietly as he can.

"It's bloody cold for July." Regulus grouses, holding his cloak closer. "Has this always been so rundown?"

"Do you ever remember anything?" they climb up the stairs and their footsteps resound in places of past grandeur. "I wonder's what's up with the weather, it's not normal to be close to frozen solid this timer of the year."

The old house though, isn't that bad on the inside, and so are the walls and floor. "It appears that no-one murdered the elf here." snidely comments Sirius. Regulus who knows him and is tired, merely grunts.

They walk down a hallway, which is not so different from the hallowed halls of Grimmauld Place. Its walls are covered in old portraits and paintings, of various thematic, some of them more apt than others for innocent eyes.

Regulus finds himself spinning around in circles in yet another piece expensively furnished with antiques while Sirius lights up a merry fire in the big limestone fireplace. There is a painting on the wall that keeps throwing him inviting glances. It's a thin woman that judging by the clothing must have lived around the sixteenth century. Her haughty, if still beautiful face has the terrible virtue of reminding him of Narcissa, which makes his innards clench.

She has a thin face, high cheekbones, long nose and pale complexion. Her lips are red, like blood, and contrast with her raven hair. Her eyes though are blue; she isn't a Black. The mesmerizing beauty of the woman in a blue corset has him entranced trying, unsuccessfully, not to see pointed resemblances to living, and dead, relatives of his. Her name, though difficult to read, is Margot Moureau.

"I guess we're realted?" he drawls softly, and the girl giggles behind a coquettish whirl of a fan. "You know?" he says louder. "I don't understand how the Family made it to these days, having that many eyes overlooking do seem like an effective form of birth control."

"Guess the world couldn't live without us."

Despite the profusion of crests and other aristocratic paraphernalia the place is stern and does not possess a great many deals of creature comforts. The chairs are hard and straight-backed and the furniture is severe and clearly designed with a more Spartan owner in mind. The bedroom chambers are practically bare and haven't been used in more time that Sirius has lived; a couple of them have windows that overlook the street.

"Please, tell me at least this place has got plumbing." Regulus finds himself with a door slammed in his face. "I will not live in a place depending on washbasins!"

The door opens again and Sirius steps out with a thoughtful face.

"I think it does."

"Then it must've been the only significant renovation in four-hundred years." Regulsu grouses in ill humour.

When he returns from inspecting the diminutive bathroom to his satisfaction, he finds Sirius ensconced in a room slightly less deserted. A few oak doors and some deep chests, that when opened relay a veritable treasure of more books; stand in niches in the walls. Sirius has already flung their entire paper luggage into a convenient table. On the wall lays their Europe map, clearly expanded to gigantic proportions with a dizzying level of detail. Right beside it a few clippings and other documents that they've found of particularly great importance are pinned to it or its immediate surroundings, connected sometimes to places, creating a complex if very complete situation of their assignment. Right in the middle of it Dolohov's thin faded face sneers unpleasantly.

::::::::::::::

The Parisian house of the Blacks is old, dark and long uninhabited. It was acquired through marriage, when the third daughter of the Blacks had married Armand Moureau in 1513; and as they had had only a daughter the house had ended up in hands of the Black heirs. Despite all the history and such other oppressing tradition it is nothing like Grimmauld Place aside of the immediately obvious.

The main reason wakes Sirius up is an ill-sounding crack an early morning after his late night obsessing over all the possible wrongdoing Antonin Dolohov can be involved in. When the initial oft-violent impulse at being waken of a sudden has passed, he has to stop a wailing house-elf from smashing her head against the wall.

"Bad elf, Chérie!" it screeches. "Bad! She awoke master! She did!"

"Stop." he says, probably less sharply that he should, and he tries to pull her off the furniture at reach. "It's enough!"

"Chérie's a bad elf!" she wails. "She's too old to appear silently! Bad elf! Bad elf!"

The old thing is wrinkled in all possible places and its floppy ears fall sadly to the sides of her face. Her voice is frayed and she is probably too old. Sirius is surprised to find that he feels sorry for her.

"Tell you what. You stop banging against things and go make breakfast." he says. And as the old crone shakes her head delightedly, he adds. "And wake the man next door too. It wouldn't do for him to be late, would it?"

Of course Regulus refuses to be roused. Sirius has to forestall an attempt at having elfin fingers smashed with a door before ordering her off the bedroom altogether. Regulus remains sleeping through the ordeal, he snuffles against his blankets, tightly wrapped in them.

The sound of running water does stir Regulus, though, provably due to a terrible episode of years past that he's tried to repress all the years in between. Still he does not move, instead he sinks deeper into his pillow. A few minutes later his blankets are thrown aside, uncovering him. Regulus shudders at the sudden cold, and cracks one eye open smacking his lips and looks warily up at Sirius who's holding a full washbasin right over him.

As he scrambles to get out of the line of fire, he picks up his clothing with the background of Sirius' hearty laughter bouncing off the walls.

"What the…?" he mutters as he searches for his shoes.

"Good morning!" sing-songs Sirius smirking.

"Was that really necessary?" ask rather upset.

"At least it was amusing." he says chuckling. "Do you know what time is it?"

Regulus raises and grabs for his clock his eyes straining under the poor light. It reads three minutes from seven a.m. He would've provably flopped onto the bed, but Sirius' unforgiving hands clutch and drag him into yet another darkened corridor. And why do the Black properties need to be so damn dark all the time? The stairs that lead to a kitchen, far smaller that Grimmauld place, are concealed behind a mirror that's really a door, and the winding staircase has some broken down steps

Even without having seen the aging house elf, it is easy to tell that the place has had a friendly hand to keep it clean through the years. A small creature comes out from a small door behind the boilers. The old elf wears a ragged piece of cloth around its body, and it is totally impossible to tell if it was a she-elf or a he-elf. It bowed so much that his or her nose touched the floor.

"Ziggy had noticed Master's arrival," says in a whine. "But she did not want to disturb Master." says as she bows even lower, if that is possible. "It's been long since the masters stepped foot in this house. Ziggy has been bad, she must punish herself."

He sees it before it can happen, just like the other elfin she throws herself to the floor and hit her head against it.

"Please don't." he says with pained patience. "Don't! If you die, I won't have a replacement." he says in an attempt to make her feel guilty and stop banging her head. It seems to work for the moment.

"Ziggy bad," she mutters as she hits her head with her hand.

"Enough. We will just need some breakfast."

The elf's eyes light in eagerness and nods excitedly.

"Yes Master, Ziggy will, she's delighted to serve a noble son of the House of Black!" and she starts lighting the fires and taking pans and pots and knives out of the drawers.

Breakfast is good. As it should be. He's forgotten how well elves cook.

"I have a job for you today." says Sirius as they eat.

::::::::::::::

The morning appears warmer that last night and the clouds are starting to vanish, even the wind seems to have temporally stopped. The trees are totally shaken by last night's storm, and the floor is covered in leaves, yellowed and trampled. Sirius walks fast and passes practically unnoticed to the crowds that have already formed around Notre-Dame.

In less than half-an-hour he goes all the way behind the Hotêl-Dieu. He walks up to a small bar, it really is a poor sight in the middle of monumental Paris, and strangely, perhaps magically, it is ignored by all the busy muggles that swarm past it. The big sign at the door proclaimes the name of the joint was _La Grenuille dansent_. A happily dancing frog painted leaping over the rim of a boiling cauldron on the sign.

Sirius enters the place. Contrary to many magical sites, the outside of the place is not mismatched to the inside as a muggle repellent. The place is small and dusty, with only a couple of patrons, and to be honest doesn't smell really good. He nods to the barman, who is a chubby man around his fifties and with a well-developed baldness. The man does not even bother to answer.

He enters a back room. It is a closed and stuffy room without windows that is lit by two candles floating in mid-air. At the end of the room there is a steep flight of stairs that leads to a small cellar. He positions himself at the centre of the room and then taps with his wand every single brick from right to left in the middle-row of one of the archways. Immediately a trap appears with a woosh, right in front of him.

He kneels and opens it, only to reveal yet another set of stairs. He grumbles a fair bit about stairs and other inconveniences, as he descends them and at the end of the stairs lays a long dark tunnel. Why do the French have to have so many stairs and passages?

And at one point, the tunnel starts to widen and then lays another set of stairs, only this ones are going up. And once he climbs up, he finds himself in the middle of a noisy and crowded street, where some people talk, some yell, in French and go from one office building to another without even looking who they are crushing on their way.

He is at the very south end of _Les Catacombes des Alchimistes_, the centre of Wizarding Paris; and south of the Seine Gate, which separates the more commercial streets from the corporation's buildings where he can see offices from known wizarding brands.

He takes out a paper from his light coat. Dumbledore's scribbled calligraphy has a name and an address. He takes his wand out and burns it before leaving the entrance archway's safety. He is supposed to meet a man who could be of great help to Dumbledore. Supposing he truly isn't dead, like the last that didn't check out, or the one who was more than a little senile. The old Guard of Europe are falling like flies. But Sirius can be a good soldier. And these days he doesn't have the contacts to accede the Justice Department of the Ministère on his own.

The gloomy weather that is coming from England chills you to the bone, even if it is July. And this dementor fog is something that unsettles him no matter how long he has to withstand it. In days like these he'd kill for a damn cigarette. And he doesn't smoke. He hates it, in fact.

He shrugs his shoulders and ambles away. This office should only be a few streets away.

::::::::::::::

"I've got a job for you. Ha!" Regulus grumbles. "He could've done it himself. But no instead he's damn well speaking for Mr Nice Guy from the Ministère."

_Les Catacombes des Alchimistes_ are the Parisian Diagon Alley. You come in through an empty archway right in the middle of an old dingy watering through of a pub called the _Chat Noir_ near the ancient site of the old burial grounds of Les Innocents. Regulus doesn't like the place much. It isn't half as nice as Diagon Alley. The long tunnel from the surface to the round square that is the centre of the wizarding business quarter is creepy. And he's half of the idea that those old rumours that said that there still are some resilient vampires lurking in this old vampire den are half true. Hell, it would be the peak of his day, being accosted by a vindictive vampire evicted from his coffin hole.

Regulus settles further in his chair, and grumbles a little more. He knows he must look mad; talking like this to himself but it keeps people from coming closer. He is a gossip by nature. He could live with that knowledge; but straining his ears to hear someone that may, or may not come around today, or even tomorrow is not his usual deal. To add insult to injury, this time he's transfigured his nose himself and the thing is a bit longer than it ever has been and he keeps seeing it with his own eyes.

Somehow people tend to forget he is there, and Regulus knows it is a gift. People's eyes glide over his frame like water, even without any magic to it. He is forgettable. It is something more in the likes of a magical aura than any spell. He was born thus, and it has its uses; much as Sirius' emits danger and allows him to draw all attention to himself when he is not actively working to counteract it.

People talk about private things in front of Regulus. And he is supposed to be right in front of the most exclusive pureblood social club, and listen and wait. And if he is lucky catch a whiff of Dolohov; who yesterday crossed to the Continent and may already be spreading his web.

By the time he has drunk his third coffee, he has also turned up the madman facade. The waiter carefully avoids looking at him, as if offended. This way, he keeps feeding his coffees to the potted plant by the terrace's edge, where he's seated. If it could complain it most definitely would.

And he is in the middle of doing just that when something finally catches his attention.

::::::::::::::

Watching up close the old pro-grindelwald families across Europe, is the logical thing to do in the current climate, even necessary. It stands in good logic that those would be the first with an active interest in what Voldemort would surely offer. But Sirius and the Order have neither the time nor the means to plant surveillance on all of them. Instead he'd be happy to have a heads up on who might be the next player to come into the scene.

Once he knows, he can be waiting for them.

He stands in front of an old building that seems to have seen at least the three wars. Climbing the battered stairs to the third floor, and knocking three times in the third door an old man appears behind it. He is small, and looks fragile, his hair is completely white and his face as wrinkled as Sirius has ever seen.

"_Bonjour_." says the man.

"_Bonjour_." answers Sirius with his best French. "_Phoenix a a chanté encore_.1" he says, with admittedly more mystery than is necessary. At his words the old man looks around and finally opens the door and ushers him inside.

"_Allons, nous n'avons pas toute la journée, quelqu'un pourrions nous voir_2_._" the man looks around again and closes the door, then he leads Sirius towards a battered living room, covering the windows with the curtains and silentio-ing the room. "J'ai été en attente des nouvelles de Dumbledore.3" he says, and he sits down and motions for Sirius to do so too. "Since zee attack at zee Ministère."

Sirius gingerly sits in an armchair next to him.

"_Je peux parler français si vous êtes plus confortable avec lui_4." offers Sirius, seeing the old man's struggle with his words.

"_Non_, I must practize my English." he says with a half-smile. "Does Dumbledore want what I zink 'e wants?"

"He'd like to have reports on all known followers of Grindelwald here, in France, and he asks you because you were the head Inspector at the time they started compiling them."

"Yes, I deed start zee post-Grindelwald investigation." he struggles. "But…"

"But what?" Sirius says somewhat impatiently.

"I do not have access to zat information… _information confidentielle_5and I am retiré." Sirius shoulders drop slightly in disappointment and sighs tiredly.

"There is no way I could get them?" says Sirius.

"_Pardon_?" asks the old man. "_Je ne compre pa_6, I missed zee last words."

"_Est-il possible de les obtenir_7?" he asks switching back to French.

"Non, _se ne pa possible_8, not mee."

"Why? - asks the grey-eyed man."

"Zee files ar' under lock een a government building…"

"A building? You mean the Parisian Ministry?" asks Sirius.

"Non, the building eez in Lyon, ze place eez in _La_ _Rue des Chats_ nº35." he clarifies. "Le Ministère tired of 'aving to copy files an' move 'em, because every time zere was a spark of revolution the Ministère burned."

Sirius laughs, and irreverently imagines a bunch of French ministry officials running like headless chickens trying to put out the flames to save their paperwork. The old man frowns at him.

"Ze entrance eez on ze third floor, from ze lifts." he goes on. "Zen take the theerd corridor to ze left an' ze feefth door to ze right, zen to ze seexth floor through ze fire stairs. You take ze feerst corridor to ze right an' zen go left at ze feerst chance and zere is a closed door." he pauses. "Zhen you open it. But zere are magical _guardings _in all ze way… Zere eez no more security after, in zee archive.

"How do I know you're not lying?" he asks routinely.

"Dumbledore sent you 'ere." Sirius is somewhat satisfied with the answer.

"Fair enough. Seems too little trouble for a building that keeps Ministère files."

"Copies. Visitors were allowed before, but zat was long ago." then he stopped to think. "Perhaps zere is even a legal vay to do eet! I weell 'ave a word with ze new bailiff."

"When?"

"Soon." is the answer. The old man stands making old bones accosted by rheumatism creak, and shuffles to a corner of the room where he scribbles something in a paper. The he hands it over. It read: _Alexandre Desplat, département de justice__9_.

"_Mercy monsieur_." and then he gets on his feet, and helps the old man shuffle back to his armchair by the dilapidated window. "I'll be leaving."

"_Au revour!"_ he croacked back. Before the door closed on him.

::::::::::::::

Regulus stands very still, when his ears catch an interesting piece of conversation. He turns minutely to observe them amble away towards a nearby intersection. He drops too many sickles on the table to cover the tab and starts to follow them as they converse absurdly loudly for someone with presumably something to hide.

"It better not happen the same as in _l'Angleterre_, with that war going on." says a tall portly balding man with a deep purple cloak.

He discreetly places himself behind them, allowing an old couple to come between them. Then he tries to follow the conversation from afar.

"_Oui_, my cousin is in London and he told me that ze Dark Lord was back, and that there had been an absurd amount of uproar at ze Ministère." says another man, slightly younger, but with an air of vain authority about him.

"_C'est vrai, _a relative of mine knew Malfoy very well. He told me that You-know-who didn't actually return last June, but last year." Regulus raises a mental eyebrow, and wonders what these people understand for discretion.

"_Bien, _I think it's a true pity that He did not win last time. Mud-bloods are far too confident. I think..."

An appalled woman stops in her tracks as she passes them, and almost immediately her eyes become unfocused and she goes on her way without picking up a fuss. Right then, a running teenager makes Regulus loose them for a moment. He curses silently as he looks around. When he spots them, they are entering what looks at first sight like another club.

It is more discreet that the former Regulus was standing watch over. And Regulus is almost ashamed to recognise he didn't even know it existed. It' isn't though, even half as exclusive as he'd have expected of a pureblood haunt, as he sees when he sneaks in after them.

There is no security at the door and it is quite a dump. The apparent owner is slumped by the cashier and looks ten shades of dodgy. Maybe that is why the pair seems so comfortable there. It is the kind of place no-one cares about no-one's business but their own.

"I really want the Dark Lord to win zese war. Perhaps, when he's done with England he will come and 'elp us with _our_ muggles." Regulus tries to see his face again, he can't recognise him.

"Zey are like a plague of rodents." the older man sneers. "zey're everywhere."

The pair of narrow-minded simpletons don't seem very keen on discussing anything of import. And Regulus is really in an awkward position halfway between a private booth and the last table at the back.

"We could do wizout the struggle that will come."

"_Y_ou'd be surprised, there's a big community in France that thinks like you and me, you just have to know where to look. – which is a really interesting comment from Regulus' point of view, but _where_? "You should talk with my brother-in-law. There's a bar in Montpelier that is only for people that thinks like us. I'll tell you the details later."

Then the conversation starts drifting to normal things, and Regulus loses any interest in it. He leaves the way he entered; confident another day with different disguise will make it impossible for him to be recognized anyway.

::::::::::::::

_Half a day later..._

2Don't be a nag." Sirius grouses. "looking up that Voldemort fan-club can wait a day or two. "

"Just because you say so..."

"Just because..."

"We need to go there knowing who we might find." Regulus says. "You already did say that twice. I'm telling you it wouldn't matter anyway because we can look it up later. Dolohov could already be there..."

He keeps dodging owls in the main room of the post office. Regulus actually has to dive to avoid a particularly ill-tempered eagle-owl that chases after him. Sirius snorts and goes to the end of the room passing by the main desks and the owls for rental, where a dozen of enormous scrolls are hanging from the wall. He starts passing the finger through lines and lines of scribbles on parchment paper. He the writes something down cryptically.

"What do we do then?" Regulus asks snappishly.

"We have business in Lion." his brother answers him. "We need to have a look at the persons of interest for the Ministère."

"Great, so what about Montpellier?"

"That can wait, is not as if they are going to go anywhere. We need to have a little chat with an Alexander Desplat."

* * *

1 _The Phoenix has sang again_

2 _Come on, we don't have all day, someone might see us_

3 _I had been waiting for news from Dumbledore._

4 _I can speak French if you are more comfortable with it_

5 _Confidential information_

6 _I don't understand_

7 _Is there any way to get them?_

8 _It's not possible_

9 _Justice department_


	31. Chapter 30: To Wake a Sleeping Lyon

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty – To Wake a Sleeping Lyon**

The French Ministry is a huge building near the Champs-Elysées. Muggles eyes effortlessly glide over it as they pass by. Sirius stands at the crossroad between the Avenue des Champs Elysées and the Rue de Marignan. His tall figure is covered by the long shadow of the early morning. His is the best position to look without being seen.

His face has been totally transfigured, and not even his mother, may her little black soul rest in peace, would have recognized him. Somewhere, perhaps nearby, Regulus is sure watching just the same as he is; in case Dolohov or one of his cronies decide to grace them with their presence.

Sirius refrains from going in until a healthy flow of employees is flowing through their doors. Sirius arrives almost always compulsively early to places. It's in his nature to be late, because despite how fashionable being late may be, it is also strategically bad. You never know what you're walking into. But discretion often requires people, so he waits as the sun rises and it slowly starts to lick at his boots as the gloomy shadow recedes.

Inside, Sirius is appalled at how easy it is to shake security. He finds himself inside Desplat's office, and unsurprisingly, he isn't there. So Sirius waits, and of course he does it inside the office. Why pick the lock otherwise? Predictably Mr. Desplat doesn't take very well to being broken into.

Sirius reacts automatically. He stops sorting through things not his own, which for some reason annoys a lot of people. Sit the man, calm him down, and make sure he doesn't scream his lungs off. It is strange that he's so used to this kind of thing that it doesn't impact on his immediate conscious. Soon after Sirius goes through all the right motions, Mr Desplat is looking at him warily but he seems to have gotten the idea. Or he's simply too damn scared to shout until he's hoarse. Sirius can have that effect even when he looks decent. He snorts, he isn't even looking like himself. He's a man around Kingsley's age and looks at him from behind thick glasses. He's got dirty blond hair and a long nose.

So he tells the good man who he is. Well, no, he doesn't do that. He tells the man who sends him.

"Mr. Couvet told me you'd come." he says cautiously. And that's all good and right but he should be more cautious. "He said you wanted information. Reports."

"I need information on known supporters of the Grindelwald regime and those suspected of being affiliated with Voldemort." Sirius says. "Preferably the living ones. But I'll take the dead ones too."

"I don't have direct access to those files," he sighs. "I should, but things keep changing. - I might get them with a bit of time."

"We don't have time." he says showing all his teeth. Today they are crooked and nasty, and he doesn't appear to be nice at all. "But copies will do."

"Right, well I suppose I might get a legal permit to get those files in around, twenty-four hours" he says, uncertainty staining his voice. Sirius approaches and sits down on a chair. "I...I understand the rush." the man stammers. "I'll go get it."

The man comes to his feet with more dignity than he has managed to stammer his acquiescence and shuts the door after himself when he leaves. Sirius balefully looks at said door and thinks that very possibly the man has gone to call for security. It is a possibility. And wonders why is he so stupid that he'll stay right here and wait till he comes back, just on the off-chance that he doesn't. He mentally cringes. _Dumbledore's man indeed._ He wonders if exaggerated naiveté is contagious.

::::::::::::::

"We go to Lyon, get the damn file, and then what?" asks Regulus.

"You'll be doing a hell of a lot of paperwork." Sirius snaps back. "Most of Death Eaters' new-found allies will be found in the east. But they might have a leg here. Nothing to obvious, they're too smart around here, to be dragged into the ugly.

"Why are we bothering?" Regulus says irritated. "Last I checked Death Eater sympathisers flocked to Bulgaria."

"They'll be more careful there than here." Sirius returns. "We'll keep an eye on the names that catch our eyes the most. And their families."

"I thought you better than that." Regulus quips.

"I usually am." Sirius says. "But I'm not willing to let them bite me first."

"So first Lion, then... Germany?"

"Yes. We theoretically have one of Dumbledore's contacts there too."

"_Theoretically_?"

"This one was old enough that a small breeze would have knocked him over. I wouldn't be surprised if half of them are old enough to have witnessed the Grindelwald Wars. There is nothing telling us that they aren't senile."

"God, let's hope not." Regulus moans. "Things can't start going sideways this early."

Sirius looks at him incredulously.

::::::::::::::

Sirius as it is his usual wont transfigures his face this morning. Regulus, with less ability with that kind of magic than his brother does too, but it is an excellent excuse to grumble about the virtues of Polijuice Potion. For this they go together.

La Rue des Chats nº35 is a small alley entirely warded off by magic, and what else it does contain aside of records offices they do not know. They both enter the building through the main door, simple enough. But they have to argue over the permits with an over-zealous middle-aged witch sitting behind the desk.

Her head is immersed in the reading of a romance paperback. Sirius coughs lightly to get her attention, but if she hears him, she certainly pays him no heed. Seeing that she isn't going to acknowledge them anytime soon, Regulus knocks on her desk, right in front of her. That seems to have the desired effect.

"What do you want?" she snaps. "You are not from the Ministère. If you are 'ere to make me lose my time, zen you can get lost."

"I am pretty certain it is you who is making everybody loose valuable time." answers Sirius unfazed. She bristles at that. She screeches and makes to ring a button on her desk. Regulus doesn't let her. He grabs her hand and possibly twists a finger into an awkward position.

"Stop being such a useless waste of space and pay attention for a moment." he says. The woman seems a bit taken aback, but provably no-one's ever talked back to her before. Sirius slams the permit on top of the desk for her to see. But she refuses them again.

"I 'ave no obligation to attend you eef I don't want to. I work for the Ministère!" the little harpy insists. Sirius laughs.

"With all the due respect, that is your only obligation." he answers her. He picks a leather wallet from his pocket and shows it to her. It is a neat trick Sirius has no scruples using. It is magicked so people will see in it whatever they need to see. Whatever it is she sees, Sirius decides he'd rather not fall short. "So you will help us, or Merlin help me, I will personally make sure that you get the sack before tomorrow. Is it clear?" he threatens. Her unflattering face doesn't improve by any measure. "I have a permit to see these files."

The door beside her buzzes open, and suddenly they can pass through. The woman joins them the other side and leads them to a door where she gives another look at the permission and then motions them to follow her down the aisles. She stopped in front of one huge set of drawers, from which he removes a box.

"You 'ave an hour." She says tersely. She says before she leaves.

Sirius opens de box carefully. It is full of parchment scrolls; he takes one out and skims his eyes over it.

"How the hell are we going to get this out with that hag looking over our shoulders?" asks Regulus annoyed. "There's no time to copy them properly."

"Properly." Sirius echoes.

"What?"

"You said it: _properly_. That's what I said too." says Sirius. The he pulls out his wand and he transfigures a pen into an identical copy of the file. And where did he get a pen from anyways? Regulus takes it up and looks through it; it would have been perfect had it not been because the pages are filled with gibberish. Looks identical, it just isn't.

Regulus wants to ask God for the umpteenth time in his life, why this kind of quick thinking always pops into Sirius' mind and actually makes sense. He is supposed to be the cunning one, if he cannot be anything else.

"Well, I suppose that will do." he says instead. And he helps with the rest of the scrolls. Which they hide in their cloaks of infinite pockets.

"Of course it will do!" Sirius answers flippantly. Sirius taps the box with his wand placing a disillusioning charm on the folder. "We'll return them. Someday."

Soon, the clicking of a woman's heels nears and they are evicted from the place. She doesn't notice a thing.

"What happens if someone finds out?" Regulus asks skeptically.

He's still unused to being on the good side of things. It sadly means also the brute force and lack of scruples that usually accompanies anything of the sort working for the side of Dark, are not in their means.

"They won't." Sirius says confidently. "And if they do we'll be far away from here."

"Great plan."

"It works." Sirius shrugs. No use complicating things. They get tangled enough on their own.

::::::::::::::

Sirius takes photographs out of that box and studies the men in there as if he was dissecting them. He sticks their pictures to the wall, and red tape crisscrosses the giant map of Europe as they work on it. Soon he is scribbling on it too, slowly transforming it in a The Great Tangled Web of Death Eater Support.

For the following month, the brothers Black travel around France, and keep a close eye on more suspicious subjects. They are forced to go from one end of the country to the other, and disapparating becomes a daily occurrence. Sirius and Regulus get into their game. They become the shadows they are watching from, and they all but disappear. The hours stretch, and the days became long boring affairs.

There certainly is no glory in that. It is nothing like the holy missions Voldemort used to impose upon his followers. The waiting almost kills Regulus, who admittedly, has no patience. The waiting; and the silence both. When they were young it used to be that the only quiet Sirius was a Sirius waiting to detonate. Then he would have been sniping at him to shut up. He'd had griped for five minutes of silence. But Azkaban changed his brother.

And the more time he spends unable to avoid him the more evident it becomes.

Oh, it didn't make him more tolerant, or more tolerable; just different and disconcerting. That damned silence gives him too much time for introspection. And Regulus doesn't want to think. He'd told himself that Sirius was a formidable if relatively simple person. That's what everyone liked to believe. That if they'd just wanted to try, Sirius could have been easy to manipulate. Of course on some level he's always known that it isn't the truth. It is just that now he knows that the Sirius he knew passed away in Azkaban. This Sirius speaks little, and is angry most of the time.

A young Sirius never had any trouble talking. He'd had plenty of words; he just never said anything much that was actually meaningful. It had the virtue of being annoying, the smartass quips, and jabs and witticisms. He deflected with ease questions he didn't want to answer, redirecting conversation in the face of people much older than him. When that didn't work he'd resort to annoying the questioner to the point they forgot what it was they'd wanted to know. That Sirius had been a runner. He ran from his problems and chased some strange ideal of rightness.

Sirius knew, and exploited, the notion that exaggerating real aspects of your personality, never actually showing everything you have is the key to pretending. He used to pretend everything was alright with him. Now he pretends that everything slides off his back. Maybe if he insists enough he'll actually get there. Now, Sirius uses silence and thinly veiled hostility. And yet sometimes he doesn't and he just looks tired. But he has stopped running from his dismal reality. Now he simply is; he views life as getting by at the moment, never moving an inch no matter what.

Regulus sometimes philosophizes on how a man can miss what he's never had; like how he'd wish a timeturner and an infinite amount of second chances. He wishes Sirius' apathy for anything not related to their mission would just vanish into thin air.

Sirius is a good man; or close enough to it. He takes care of both of them, and he can even be gruffly affectionate. He gets a pat in the back and sparse conversation; and Sirius makes damn sure no Death Eater could possibly recognize him even a foot from him. But he is obsessed where Death Eaters are concerned.

He is also moody, and intractable. He gets annoyed every time Regulus communicates with Dumbledore via patronus. His pitiful attempts to conjure one don't manage further than noxious silver fumes. Soon enough he gives up. At least that Regulus can see.

During that period of time they cross paths once or twice with one Death Eater, always the same, presumably in a mission for Voldemort. He never spots them. They don't know who it is, but it isn't Dolohov. Their closest call is in Bordeux.

They are walking round a wizarding pub, after apparently missing a black market dealer of illegal potions they were after for his dealings with men that were more or less adepts to Voldemort's mumbo-jumbo. Regulus' feels Sirius him out of the way and into a small alley. He is covering his mouth with his hand, pulling him against the wall. He doesn't even react when he bites him, more out of pure instinct than conscious thought. Sirius' grip slackens he also gets slapped around the back of the head.

"What the hell?" asks Regulus. "What was that for? Will you even answer me?" asks Regulus as he looks at the people around trying to find out what's scared his brother.

"I saw two Death Eaters, happy?" he says. And stands looking at the very spot two men had been occupying moments before.

"Dolohov?" Regulus asks.

"Maybe." he says. It is difficult to see his expression in the dark. "But they disappeared outside-country."

Sirius then wants to know where they were going. And they have a standing disagreement over the matter of the Montpellier den. For Sirius it is not necessary yet, to do anything about it. He thinks it is an unnecessary risk of exposal. Regulus seethes every time he simply dismisses it. As usual, Sirius wins the argument by refusing to budge an inch.

By the time October rolls to an end Sirius is making some noises to go east. He wants to follow the trail of a trafficking ring of illegal dark magic goods Death Eaters use to pass back and forth some classes of information. All of them sympathize with Voldemort. It's a cold night, and it is already dark outside. They're next to the fireplace, staring into lazy blue flames.

Today Sirius is unusually amicable.

"This is a nightmare." Regulus groans. Sirius looks at him for a moment. "Sometimes I think it must be a bad dream from which I will wake up at any moment."

"Which part of it exactly?" Sirius throws back at him, still observing the flames.

"The part in which I am trapped into this." he says. "I'd just give a hand to turn away and forget about everything."

"Then no. Too real for a dream." Sirius says, and Regulus shrugs as if he's been chastened.

"I just don't see the end. I don't know how this could possibly end well. How could the world go back to the way it was with all that has happened?" Sirius remains thinking for a while. His hair, which often escapes the constriction of its bindings, partially obscures half of his face. And when answers he seems to damn wise.

"I don't know, but it very well might. In the end it can last only so long." he says. "Besides, would you want to go back to the way it was?"

"Sometimes." Regulus says. "It's the only way I know. What do you hope for?"

"I don't hope. I believe." Sirius answers wryly, as if amused at himself. "I keep holding on to something, and don't let go."

"And what is that?" asks Regulus, being himself unable to see what.

"To the idea that there's some good in this world, Regulus." he seemed to be thinking. "You should try it too."

Regulus incredulous snort is answer enough, and he receives a dirty look for it. Yeah, and people will suddenly turn trustworthy worldwide. But he supposes he too is holding on to the notion, more selfish, that _he_ is doing the right thing, even if he won't admit to it or that it actually does give him the warm-and-fuzzy-feelings when he thinks of it like that. He wouldn't do it otherwise. He isn't one to shoot himself on the foot.

But damn if he is ever going to say it.


	32. Chapter 31: A Blaze in the Dark

_Author: shyangell & MorningDawn_

_DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One – A Blaze in the Dark**

They cross the German border the 20th October of that same year, and they do so on foot. It is a well-developed system all magical smugglers use regularly. It consists of apparatting to a point near the border, cross it on foot and then a few meters over the border dissapparate to your real destination.

Their routine intensifies. Sirius' contacts are more numerous the more to the east they go, and so is suspicious activity. Historically, it is expected that it'd be so, but it is many times difficult to discern how much of it has something to do directly with Death Eater activity and what is part of deals of lowlifes the likes of Mundungus Fletcher.

They jump from a couple of improvised hide-holes to a safe house that doesn't look very safe at all in Hamburg. They stop there a few days. There Sirius haunts the port and the immediacies of the docks. When he isn't doing that he observes the movement of the great ships from the window of their flimsy rooms as if he can see through metal and paint to their very bowels. Regulus leaves him to it. He gets sent to do petty messenger jobs all over the city and surrounding area.

Wherever they go, Sirius takes out the famous map and sticks it on the next available wall. As they work the crisscrossing on it grows and expands to contain all sorts of information. Some, Regulus doubts it will ever be of any use.

He is not as good a strategist as Sirius. That was established a long time ago, back when he was not yet a man but believed he could play the game as if he was. His father knew that too and perhaps even he was not up to par with Sirius. He remembers when Sirius told them how this was going to be, so long ago, in the stuffy atmosphere of Grimmauld Place, when he was only a fifteen-year-old child. Voldemort first asked for help he shouted at them, then he would have a claim on them, and after he'd force them to do what they would have never been able to conceive. Sirius had good instincts; he didn't believe in what appeared too easy. Soon Voldemort devoured the remnants of the aloof Wizarding elite, and those who allowed that nightmare to begin fell slowly into oblivion. Who remembers now, twenty years later, Orion Black and his friends?

Now it's the time when Regulus does what he has to, he's been educated for it. He has no remorse or feels any semblance of hesitation when he cheats honest people out of information they shouldn't be giving him, or when he has the unwary made a fools of to achieve their goals. He knows every crumb he gets brings them closer to Dolohov, and works hard because Sirius knows where they are going. It's how they were raised, Sirius leads and Regulus follows. And he is comfortable with it. In his mind, even if he doesn't see all the pieces he knows they amount to something he can sometimes glimpse. He is happy enough with it.

Even if he will never feed Sirius' immense ego informing him of the fact.

What he sees so far is that Sirius, and him of course, is weaving a net and he will close it sooner rather than later and move to Bulgaria. Whenever Dolohov passes close enough and breaks the net, Sirius will know it. And they will succeed, and Dolohov will fail in doing his master's bidding. Dumbledore, old and wizened and surrounded by too many hopeless fools, seems to sometimes get by with what he has. But they are not just anyone. Sirius, as smart as he is, sometimes forgets that.

In Frankfurt, later in other places, Regulus starts locating a litany of places Grindelwald sympathisers gather assiduously. He knows they still have need of names. And that means repeating the manoeuvre as in France. What he doesn't now is how.

::::::::::::::

A blond man is sitting on a stool at the far corner of the tavern; it's a muggle place, faraway from any magical location. Despite it, the man is edgy. He keeps throwing furtive glances to the door and seems too cautious. Nobody is looking at him, he is dressed appropriately and there is no-one obviously magical around that he can see. Still, he'd rather be over and done with the waiting.

When Sirius seems to materialize in front of him as if by magic, he is duly startled, but his alarm doesn't scare him badly enough to attract anyone else's attention for more than scant seconds. He then, recognises him and gets his hand out of his pockets and relaxes slowly.

"It is good to see you." Sirius says, "Even with the evident changes." He then gestures to where the man's left eye should be, now covered to hide a gaping hole. The man grimaces.

"You too." He says. "You startled me." He examines Sirius closely. He is one of the few of Sirius' contacts that actually knows who he is or has had a chance to guess. He has seen his face before and Sirius is not under disguise this time; their acquaintance is very long. His eyes roam first through his face and then over his non-descript clothing. They seem to find nothing wrong with him. "Your abominable sense of humour hasn't changed, though."

Klaus is a man from nowhere. He subsides with the money the German Chancellery pays the likes of him to keep tabs on the movements on vampires and werewolves and hags near the Black Forest. Of course half the time he is more cheating them out of their money than truly contributing to the containment of half-breeds. And he lives amongst people of the same sort as him. But his ability to stay well-informed exceeds the boundaries of humanoid creatures and extends into the human underground life and the life over the surface too. He is a mystery, for Sirius doubts very much that the man is German, for starters. But in a way he doesn't care because he's proved trustworthy many times. He's a bit of a rebel, but he's cautious, and doesn't take bribes. And he himself seems to have too many secrets to go about talking about theirs.

"I've come to see what you have for me." he says, and he leans back. He doesn't touch the beer that has appeared in front of him. "You've had to know for a long time that I'd be coming."

"I've heard things here and there." he says with a decisive nod. He's got no compunctions about drinking from his beer keg, though.

"Hmm. So?" Is Sirius prompt.

"Most of them pure-blooded filth hasn't decided yet where'd they going to go with this but they're far too pleased if you catch my drift." He says getting a bit more animated. "And believe me there's lots that'd gladly sit on the side of the muggle-bashing crowd. But for now most still don't know who they're going to support. In my opinion they aren't sure yet the Bad One you have in your god-forsaken island is going to reach far enough to help them help themselves."

"You think they eventually will, won't they?" he asks, "They're going to wait to see where the wind blows, but when the time comes they'll take the chance."

"We'd better hope the time doesn't come." Klaus says with energy. "Your folks better start doing something soon. They are many that will do just that. Many will also get slaughtered if so. This land has suffered enough. And regular folk just don't believe it or don't care, which doesn't help our case. They mostly don't care as long as it remains in godforsaken-England."

"We're on it." Sirius says dryly. "Doesn't mean a more active brand of help wouldn't be amiss."

"What'd you want us to do? We don't even know who the devil you are looking for this time." he reproaches him. "Because that man with the awful beard-thing... we ain't seen him."

"And you won't." Sirius says. "Igor Karkakoff is dead. And I'd caution you to stay the hell away from Antonin Dolohov. For all the ability you have with leading underground activist groups, you've never seen the likes of Dolohov, and it'd be better for you if you never have to."

"Ja." Klaus says and looks pensively out of their booth. "If they make noise with the high ups there is little I can tell you. It's not places I have ears in. But I can tell you there are a couple of businessmen, if you can call them that, that'd sell their mothers for a few galleons that'd been having dealings with outside people a lot lately. Ambramsen and Baumann, had been having too much currency to be dealing only in stolen goods and other small illegalities. They have their backyard practically in Poland, and we think they're letting someone else use it. I don't think you're going to find out it's other smugglers, it'd be bad for business."

Sirius thinks about it. It makes sense, and it is something concrete at the same time. To monitor sympathisers is proving a bit fruitless. The wars of Grindelwald left a lot of resentment, it is logical they see a new uprising as a chance to take their revenge. To monitor a couple of lowlifes to determine where the hell is going Dolohov is feasible. And he already knows Dolohov is going east, always east.

"I can work with that." he says and smiles. Klaus has heard of Sirius Black, since he last saw him. He knows he's supposed to be mad. But he doesn't seem so, just cool-headed and, he admits a bit scary, but no different from before. The fire of determination that burns in his eyes hasn't changed one bit, and Klaus is glad he didn't ditch the meeting. "It is not the high ups that worry me. They won't move a finger if they see no immediate profit. Not yet. It is the Chancellery's Ministerium that worries me. I need to know how they're going to take it."

Klaus makes a face. He doesn't seem to like what he's going to say. That is perhaps what worries Sirius the most.

"There's a lot of traditionalists flocking in there in the last years." he finally says. "The good ones, they're all dying all around us. Money is buying seats for the ones who have the good life."

"Fould play?" Sirius asks, because it frankly wouldn't surprise him.

"No." Klaus says. "just old age. They were all of the generation that overcame Grindelwald. And they have no followers, or if they have them they get overlooked. It's getting ugly for us."

Sirius sighs. They say their tense goodbyes. The conversation with Klaus leaves him worried, even if he has now means to get a location on Dolohov soon. The Ministerium is looming, and he needs to get a handle on non-convicted sympathisers sooner rather than later.

::::::::::::::

Sirius walks down a crowded street. Berlin has greeted them with a grey ugly sky and the promise of rain. The wind is bitter cold as he walks. Soon he sees a familiar figure walking a few meters in front of him. When he gets a hold on him, as expected Regulus twists around turning his wand into him. It'd have been effective if it hadn't been Sirius and hadn't been expecting it.

"Hey!" he says. Regulus huffs, and makes an effort to conceal the fact that he's been smoking, quickly throwing the cigarette to the floor and turning it off with the heel of his boot. His efforts aren't rewarded at all, as Sirius looked at him. "This is going to kill you."

Regulus shrugs his hand off. And they keep walking.

"At least it'll be a sweet way of dying." retorts the younger brother.

"That's the biggest stupidity I've heard coming out from that mouth, and I assure you that they haven't been few." says Sirius. "If you want to kill yourself, fine, go ahead, but if possible do it blowing that noxious smoke in my direction."

"Alright, alright, have it your way." Regulus answers. "Where are we going?"

"To the Ministerium." Sirius says. "But you are going to sit watch on a couple of wretches on the border. There's reason to think Dolohov's using them."

When finally Regulus leaves, Sirius is left alone. The German Ministerium, is the paradigm of neatness, even the people there seem carefully placed. He gives a quick look through the panels in the entrance and finds that the Justice Department is in the second floor upwards.

His disguise is good, as a portly man of some years as evidenced by greying hairs in the temples. He has a satchel with papers and is passing for a lawyer. His credentials are all false; he's not stupid enough not to heed a warning like the one Klaus gave him just yesterday, except for the pretence of being a lawyer, which is somewhat legit.

He directs his steps towards the office of the man he was looking for, coincidentally the head of said department after navigating through a sea of desks in the middle of a great busy room. There are comings and goings, busy witches carrying heavy folders, and he distractedly runs into a witch with tiny glasses and caramel hair, but he doesn't take too long in apologizing. He knocks on the door itself, and there is a "come in" shouted in response.

The man sitting at the desk is nothing like the old fragile man Sirius was expecting. Instead there is a small taut man with a thin mean moustache and far too young. Sirius has the gut feeling his chance is escaping through his fingers before it began.

"Is this Sigmund Kerner's office?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Was," the man says curtly. "It is now mine. If you count yourself amongst his friends you should already know."

His tone is cold and arrogant, and his demeanour a tad rude as he points to the silver plate on his door.

"I am Ingolf Horowitz." he continues. "Is there anything I can do for you?" asks impatiently.

Sirius has now a problem. He doesn't know this man or who he reports to. He knows though that what he has to ask is necessary and dangerous, and possibly illegal.

"I'd like to get the permission to look through your files achieve" answers Sirius, reaching a compromise within himself. "It's on behalf of an old case."

"I'm am sure you are well-aware no-one alien to the Ministry can have access to them. And if you are asking for me to drag through the mud another hopeless case on behalf of some stupid embezzler you are out of luck!" he shrieks. He looks a bit like a manic and Sirius just stands there in accord to his apparent affability. "I don't care that my predecessor would have allowed you to, the winds in this department have changed and I will not allow such a riot."

"Excuse me?" Sirius says, aware that he's landed unknowingly in the middle of a battlefield.

"I don't care that that old coot was in league with every liberal, anarchist and muggle-hugger in Germany." the man bellowed. "These times are over. There will be no more appeals out of goodwill! You come back when you have a signed warrant, ergo never!"

The door closes on his face even if the man never stood up from his plush chair. That leaves him confused for a few seconds. He allows himself a few moments of dismay, before he recomposes himself. He then takes his signet that he'd been wearing on his left hand as the convened signal by Dumbledore. From there he puts it on the less unusual index finger of the right hand. He scans the room about him.

The man's outburst doesn't seem to create any kind of upheaval, not even a ripple of surprise. Instead the scene unfolding in front of them is ignored by the rest of the large office. Except for the witch of the small glasses that observes him, still as a statue of stone.

Sirius comes back five days later, and two more times after that. He plays his part, with insistence, and pleading. The man is so obfuscated screaming that doesn't even ask about his supposed client, and Sirius of course doesn't say. He does notice though the same witch observing him always, with her small glasses perched low on her dainty nose, sharp and watchful. And Sirius knows she knows something, He just needs to know what.

He finds out where do they keep their records, which is thankfully even on the same floor, and he realizes there is no way he can sort through everything of interest without raising suspicion. He can feel her damn eyes watching his every damn movement, with no subtlety at all, and knows what he has to do cannot be legal.

::::::::::::::

Regulus seats guard by the visitors door of the German Chancellery and the Ministerium of Magic. Done with spying on a couple of weed-heads and their dodgy deals for an entire week, he is instead on guard duty. It seems a bit obvious to watch over an overtly public place, but Sirius is convinced that Dolohov does have already someone inside. He'd dismiss the idea that they'd come directly here because they're well known and it is not strategically necessary even for a Death Eater.

He also knows, and that is part of what Orion Black taught him, that people like to feel important. Most intelligent Death Eaters know that too. Perhaps he would send someone, or come himself to talk with whomever had Sirius worried. They'd feel important to be acknowledged personally. They have to also consider, that Death Eaters think that their shit don't stink, and consequently are far too sure of themselves. Wouldn't anyone who intended to kill anyone who dared question them?

And perhaps being overcautious Regulus sits there, in the wind late this evening, puffing pensively on a cheap cigarette. Smoke curls up and is swiftly swept away by the elements, a long flimsy line of white in the wind. He pauses momentarily in his puffing, and his eyes slit with caution.

If his eyes don't fool him, Dolohov in the flesh, just exited the Ministerium. His usually sinister persona hasn't got any more palatable with time. His long, pale twisted face looks around and he sniffs the air as if smelling something. But he doesn't look at Regulus.

Azkaban has changed Dolohov. A scant few meters away from him, he is still unmistakable; but his expensive clothing hangs awkwardly off him and the straggly beard he now has accentuates his Slavic ascendance. It also makes him seem even more ascetic and ghastly, and Regulus who had known him, knew the apparent carelessness can forebode nothing good.

He remains by the doorjamb that had kept him half-hidden until Dolohov takes a definite direction away from him. He lets him have some advantage. When Dolohov has just rounded the corner turning away, he pulls off the wall and puts off the cigarette under the steeled toe of his boots. He moves amongst the people and follows his direction. But the crowd seems to have swallowed him. Dolohov is a small man, he is fast too. But he cannot have disapparated in the middle of a muggle crowd. The street is a blur of faces and noises as Regulus inspects every and each one of them. He has to be there, somewhere.

If Dolohov knows, he thinks. This is over. It isn't good when the other side knows you're there; especially when _you_ don't know what they are doing. Blood runs cold in his veins, and he feels a chill on his body. He doesn't want to die, that is all he can think of. _Where are you?_

With immense relief, a dark cloak with silver buttons catches his eye. For some reason Dolohov has stopped and is observing a muggle sandwich vendor stall. That seems out of character. He is very glad he hasn't stopped walking for a second, glad that he looks completely normal. He lets his legs bring him ever closer to Dolohov. It is a risk.

The distance between them keeps shortening, and Regulus thinks everybody must be able to hear his heartbeat, so loud it is. He comes only three meters from Dolohov, before he surpasses him and keeps going. But it is enough. He gets a good look at his right hand. There is big scar crossing his hand from right to left that goes up down his sleeve. He'd been right next to Dolohov, sixteen years ago, on the very day that he'd received that wound fruit of a severing charm. He doesn't remember the caster, but he remembers the anguished cry of Dolohov at that moment.

He keeps walking, and when he comes to an intersection takes the one he finds most likely. He waits then. He hopes Dolohov will pass by again. He doubts it. When after a while he hasn't come, he retraces his steps. Dolohov is long gone. Fugitives often have the ability to know when they are being watched. He knows there is nothing he could do, he was alone. He knows, but he'd rather not have lost Dolohov. He silently contemplates the sandwich stand for a while himself.

::::::::::::::

"Dolohov was there." Regulus says in the safety of the old small house in Colony they're using at the moment. Sirius has just apparatted from Berlin and is standing in front of an entryway mirror undoing the various transfigurations he's inflicted on his face and upper body. It is a practice that Regulus hates to use extensively on himself. It makes movement the more awkward the more extensive it is the body modifications. It would make fighting awkward too in case you were discovered.

"What?"

"Dolohov left the Ministerium some hours before you did." he repeats, "It was this morning."

"You sure?" Regulus says of course he is and Sirius grunts in acknowledgment. "So Voldemort does have someone in Europe already. This is..."

"A nuisance."

"Well, yes." Sirius says, as he undoes a corporal transfiguration on his left shoulder.

"I don't think there was anyone else with him." Regulus says. "But I do think he has realized there's someone tailing him."

"Did he see you?" Regulus shakes his head negatively.

"I don't think so." Sirius turns back to look at him fixedly.

"You don't have to think! You have to know!" Sirius shouts. "Did he see you or did he not?"

"No." answered, trying to sound sure. "I'm just saying that he might have had a feeling. Sirius, he can't know it was _me_."

"He doesn't have to know for certain." Sirius points out. "He'll have a feeling, it is logical that there will be someone tailing him. I was meaning that he has someone inside."

"Well, it isn't whomever you were keeping an eye on, because you didn't see him." Regulus points out annoyingly. Sirius just tilts his head and shoves him aside where he is standing behind him now.

"We're still going in." he says. "We need those damn person of interest reports, and that asshole is not going to let me come close."

::::::::::::::

The corridors of the Ministerium are deserted. Sirius has been waiting stashed in a cupboard that regrettably proved victim to a permanent sticking charm. Or that is what the caretaker believes. At the moment rid of any sort of spells on his person, and regrettably looking more like himself he moves with more agility that he would otherwise if he still were stuck in his stuttering lawyer persona.

As he slips from the confining supply closet he makes his way in the dark to the second floor. Sirius' eyesight is keen, and he sees fairly well in the darkness. Maybe it is the light colour of his eyes, clear and bright, which practically shine from the shadows, but Sirius has never had much trouble seeing where other men are blind. And then, there is a light shining from an office door left ajar at one end of the floor plan. But the vast bullpen is completely deserted, this late at night.

Sirius navigates around desks and traitorous wheeled chairs without making any noise. He intends to be in and out of the building before the night owl that's left there takes any notice that he's dropped by. In and out. That's the plan.

He pulls out his wand and contemplates the sealed oak door that stands, almost unobtrusively in the middle of an immense blank wall. There is only one keyhole in the entire door, for the rest it is perfectly sealed. He casts silently a modified version of _revelio_. He watches as the door seems to come to life, it lights up glittering in the dark, telling him exactly what he has to do next. It doesn't exactly tell him, but he's well-versed enough in the art of breaking-and-entering to know the meaning of every twinkle revealed with almost complete certainty. It would be easier if he did have a key. He disables the alarm, the most obnoxious off all the spells interwoven in the wards and works on them until the door cracks open by itself.

He peers into the obscure room getting a feel of the room layout. His wand lights the way before him as he scans the rows of ceiling-high shelves, dozens and dozens of them. This would've been easier if they'd had a living contact, Sirius thinks tartly. He sighs. No use complaining, but despite the impeccable reasoning behind that conclusion, he still has to resist the immature impulse to _accio_ anything to do with Grindelwald and Voldemort accumulated in that room. But that would be foolish. For once he doesn't know if historical records are kept here or somewhere else, and obviously there is such a thing as too much information. On the other hand, reports are meant to keep an order. He knows that whatever he collects won't be as comprehensive as it could have been, but he'll work over what he knows. The virtue of reading a file on a known felon is that at least a dozen more names prop up from between the lines, more if you know how to read them. They'll have to work with that.

So he works with what he does know; names he does know from before... Falk, Althaus, Benn, Rapp, Kneller... and new ones like Abramsen and Baumann. Thankfully for him, he knows firsthand some of the former young militants do have a record a mile long. If he so felt like it, they should be enough to paper the way back to England with it.

Sirius stops his wandering on silent feet for a few seconds. He listens. If he were in his canine form, he most likely would've lifted an ear. He opens the first case he comes to, full of thick folders where parchment rolls have been cut and treated to occupy the minimum possible space. He stops again in his movements. He's almost completely certain he's just heard very light steps resonate in the empty space between himself and the door. Rapp's file isn't there anymore.

This room doesn't have an echo. And he isn't the one moving anymore.

"Nox." He whispers, plunging the room in complete darkness. He abandons the box where it is, and making use of the ability for silence that earned him the name Padfoot disappears down an aisle in the exactly opposite direction the faint footsteps came from. He stays still as a statue, so he isn't making any noise at all. He then travels perpendicularly and then across from the other intruder. There is an intruder, he is sure of it now.

He can hear a faint breathing. Young then, and most likely inexperienced. Judging by the fact that the steps are, were, very light he'd say small. But the slight noise is not loud enough for him to mark the target in the dark. He slackens his grip on his wand fractionally. He is surprised the other person hasn't moved. It seems practically scared, he can almost smell it. He mentally sighs; he is sadly above irreparably hexing innocents it seems.

He could leave. But they would call security. It's going to have to be something else.

He moves, and this time lets his footsteps fall with more force, making his boots resonate against the bare concrete. He can divine a figure as it whirls around with the swish of a cloak, wand extended outwards blindly perusing around. Sirius is reluctant to use a spell. As long as there is no light at all he has the advantage. He leaps into action; he ducks under the line of the shot and with the momentum grabs a hold of his opponent's wrist, who immediately lunges the other way. Their combined momentum makes them crash against one of the metallic shelves.

Sirius bangs the hand he's holding against a beam and digs his fingers between the wrist tendons until the wand-hand opens reflexively with a pained gasp. His opponent is a woman.

Now it is clear even in the dark, she barely reaches up to his chin. The bones under his hand are small and he could easily break them. He stops immobilising her with all his body weight and puts a bit of distance between himself and her. When she moves it seems to him he sees the faint reflections on glass on her face.

"Who the hell are you?" he hisses.

"I am Herr Kerner's protégé." says the slightly hoarse voice. It seems a bit at odds with the clearly feminine body he knows she does possess. "I know what you want."

Sirius, mistrusting by nature, lets her go on anyway. He lights up his wand, and it sheds a pale light over the solemn witch of the small glasses and the amber hair that's been so watching him all week. He growls.

"Are you mad?" he snaps. "I could've killed you."

"I wouldn't have let you." Sirius waves impatiently. Now that she's slightly calmer she doesn't look half as much as a deer caught in the headlights. "I am here to help you get it."

"How do you know who I am?" Sirius retorts. He's come to the conclusion that she must be telling the truth. If she wasn't she'd have attempted to shoot him.

"Your partner used the convened signal." she points out. "And you are wearing the same ring." she says pointing at his right hand. "It wasn't my partner." he mutters. "Herr Kerner talked to me about the possibility that Professor Dumbledore would ask this of the department. But I don't think he planned to be deceased by then." she says. "I have been waiting around this past week."

He nods and steps back; he casts about and finds that ten feet away is laying the other wand. He takes a few steps and takes it. He doesn't return it though. He looks at her questioningly.

"I work a lot." she explains succinctly. "I was already in the room when you entered. Follow me." she takes just one lone file laid upon a bare metal table. "Everything else is already there."

What there he sees, in the exceedingly bright office isn't much telling. But in the middle of the desk there is one box, where she crams the file she was holding.

She is a tall woman of thin complexion, with honey-brown hair tied up in a bun and tiny glasses on her nose. She could be conventionally pretty if she didn't seem to discourage being considered so. She appears to be stern, and has the misfortune of reminding him somewhat of Professor McGonagall. Sirius casts one last look at her, but she simply pushes the box forward for his inspection.

He peers inside, it has been magically modified to be more spacious. He looks at the files, some of them are very old. In 1945 there was a judicial process of colossal proportions, the Nurmengard Trials, where anyone who worked, knew or so much as ever talked with Grindelwald was judged and sentenced according to the gravity of their offenses.

"Only the ones that are still alive." she says. He looks at her. She just seems determined to be helpful.

Then there is a pile of newer files. A quick glance tells him their crimes are varied, but none have ever been accused of extensively practicing Dark Magic. The ghost of Gellert Grindelwald hangs heavy over central Europe. The governments are afraid of raising again the nightmare by talking about it. Instead they act as if it was a thing only of the past, no longer worth pursuing any longer.

"Thank you." he tells her.

"It is nothing." she says. "For me, it is personal. For anything else, you know where to find me." Sirius, more intuitive in his decisions that he'd like to admit, believes in the sincere offer.

"I do, Miss Hirsch." he says. And she just looks at him unblinking with huge clear blue eyes, over the infinite space of a wooden desk.

::::::::::::::

Sirius deposits the box on the floor before their map of Europe. There, sat on the floor, where the cold starts slowly seeping into his bones, he starts to read.


End file.
